


maybe we can't be okay (but maybe we'll try anyway)

by impravidus, notapartytrick



Series: maybe 'verse [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Avengers Family, Banter, Brainwashing, Brief Mentions of Bodily Fluids and Functions, Brief Mentions of Cannibalism, Dehumanization, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Platonic Cuddling, Precious Peter Parker, Recovery, Vomiting, Whump, and it is referenced several times, the rape is not graphic, there is a scene depicting it but not in detail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:49:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 68,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26478253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impravidus/pseuds/impravidus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/notapartytrick/pseuds/notapartytrick
Summary: The Avengers thought it would be a simple mission. Kill the giant, sixty foot worm monsters, head home and maybe take an hour long shower to get the worm guts off. But when they come across a hidden town in the depths of the forest, the last thing they're expecting to find is a secret underground base and a fourteen year old boy sticking to the ceiling.The team finds themselves becoming a dysfunctional family to the teen while he learns how to find a life out of captivity.Featuring dolphins, puzzles, and frosting art.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Peter Parker, Clint Barton & Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes & Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Avengers Team, Peter Parker & Natasha Romanov, Peter Parker & Sam Wilson, Peter Parker & Steve Rogers, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: maybe 'verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084730
Comments: 840
Kudos: 1617
Collections: Avidreaders Avengers completed faves, Avidreaders Spiderman completed faves





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaybee988](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaybee988/gifts).



“Giant worms. Really? That’s my life now? Fist fighting giant worms in the middle of the fucking forest?” Clint leaned his head on the trunks of one of the giant sequoias that was thankfully not drenched in giant worm guts, chugging a water bottle.

“You wouldn’t have had to fist fight them if you had packed more arrows,” Nat pointed out.

“Oh, nice, pick on the arrow guy because he is burdened by the disadvantage of his only weapon being limited to the amount of arrows he can carry in his quiver,” Clint retorted.

“You’d fit more in your quiver if you just let me make you nanobot arrows. Hit your target and then it’ll boomerang right back in,” Tony said, leaning on a tree, armored arms crossed.

“They don’t feel right,” Clint said, face scrunching in disgust.

“I can _make_ them feel right,” Tony scoffed.

“They won’t feel right.”

“You haven’t even felt them yet!” Tony exclaimed, hands flying up.

“And I know that they won’t feel right!”

“Hey!” Steve interjected, voice firm. “We’ve had a very long day, so let’s just head back, alright?”

“Can we at least get some food? I didn’t have breakfast, and that was… a mistake,” Bucky said.

“I could definitely use some fuel for the ride back,” Sam added.

“I’m picking up heat signatures about a mile west,” Tony said.

“A _mile_?” Clint whined.

“Suck it up, Barton. Get your steps in,” Natasha said.

“I get _plenty_ of steps. I get so many steps. I have _gotten_ more than enough steps today while I was _fist fighting giant worms_ . Seriously, can we please talk about that? Can we _please_ talk about the sixty foot worms? Because I feel like we are being very lax about the fact that _sixty foot worms_ just _exist_.”

“We’re over it,” Bucky said with a shrug. “Get over it.”

“Ge- just _get over it_? I don’t think I’m gonna be able to do that, pal.”

“Can we start walking to these heat signatures before my stomach implodes in starvation?” Sam asked.

“That’s not how stomachs work,” Bruce said.

“Oh did you learn that when you got one of your seven PhDs?” Sam asked dryly.

“You guys are really not gonna let me live that down, huh?” Bruce said, head bowing in embarrassment.

“Seven is just overkill,” Tony said. “Seven isn’t a feat, it’s a sign of poor planning and indecisiveness.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bruce mumbled.

After a long ten minute walk of tired bickering and an awkward bathroom break ( _you really couldn’t wait five minutes, Clint?_ ), they approached a small town, which was a confusing mix of abandoned old country western film ghost town and bustling amish village. 

“What is this place?” Sam muttered.

“I think that’s a restaurant over there?” Steve said. “You think they take walk-ins?”

“I think that they’ve never taken walk-ins from anyone who doesn’t live in this Brigadoon,” Tony replied.

“Well today’ll be a first,” Steve said, a bright but strained smile on his face.

They entered the restaurant, walls painted a solid cream and tables and chairs a dark wood. Everyone froze, eyes wide as they stared at the Avengers.

“Y’think they’re fans?” Bucky asked.

An old woman in a frilly apron approached them, giving them all a big plastic smile. “Hello. How may I help you?”

“We were wondering if we could get a table? We just got back from a very taxing mission and would love to get some food from your lovely establishment,” Steve said, switching on his Captain America charm. 

“Of course,” she said. “Let us set you up a table.” She turned to her coworkers and gave them a quick order in Irish Gaelic.

The two workers nodded curtly, rushing to push the tables together, rearranging the chairs for them.

As the team took seats, they all let out a collective sigh, their sore muscles finally getting a break. 

“I don’t think I’m gonna be able to get up from this chair ever again. I think I live here now,” Clint said, eyes closed as he slumped in his chair.

“So, what’ve they got on the menu?” Tony asked.

“Lots of comfort food. Couple stews, couple casseroles. Doesn’t say what’s in them though,” Sam said.

“I’m guessing everyone here is a regular and they know the usuals,” Tony stated. His gaze drifted to Steve whose brows were furrowed in deep thought. “Somethin’ on your mind, Cap?”

Steve shushed him silently. His brows furrowed even deeper. He turned on his comm, motioning for everyone else to do the same. “Read your menus, so not to draw attention.” They did so. “I’ve been listening to the workers. They’re speaking my ma’s mother language, and what they’re saying…” He stopped. “They said to ‘initiate full blackout’ and ‘do not let the variables escape.’ I think there might be a hostage situation.”

The Avengers went silent. 

“Hostiles are armed,” Steve told them. “We need to act.”

Tony stood up from the table, the others staring at him, trying not to look alarmed. He approached them with perfected feigned casual confidence. “Do you guys have a bathroom?”

The woman looked up, unsettlingly calm. “I am sorry. We do not have one.”

“Then may I go into the kitchen, please? I’m a bit of a germaphobe and need to wash my hands before I eat.”

“We can’t let you do that,” she said firmly.

“Why not? Really, it’ll be just a second. I won’t mess with the food or anything,” he said, holding up his hands.

“Restricted access.”

“I’ll be quick. Really. I’ll even tip you extra for the trouble.”

“We really can’t let you do that.”

Turning to the others, Tony bobbed his head to the kitchen, nodding slightly.

The team stood up from their seats. Everyone in the restaurant shot up and charged towards them.

Tony put up his helmet, switching his blasters to stun, and took out as many of the attackers as he could. The rest, less Bruce, were fighting hand to hand, aiming to incapacitate but not do major damage. 

Steve and Bucky headed to the kitchen, scouring the area for possible locations of the hostages.

An array of knives was thrown at the two. Steve, barely dodging them, got a thin slice on his cheek as he ducked behind his shield. Bucky caught them midair, ready to fight.

Then ensued a swift and brutal dance, the chefs fighting with intense rage but not much technique. The ferocity of their combat made it clear that whatever they were hiding was something they would lay down their lives to prevent the Avengers from discovering.

A few well-placed hits saw them all crumpling on the speckled tiles in quick succession, out cold. 

Bucky and Steve searched the kitchen, scanning for a door or a hidden door when they both locked their gaze on the pantry. Although locked and guarded to suspicious excess, the pantry revealed nothing but shelves of food at first. However, the last shelf pulled out and revealed a dimly lit cement spiral staircase.

“Uh, guys,” Steve said into his comms. “I think I found what we’re lookin’ for.”

“The current hostiles are fleeing out the door,” Natasha said. “Clint and I are gonna follow. The rest will catch up with you two.”

“Copy,” Steve replied. “Let’s go.”

Before they could make it down the first corner, rapid footsteps confronted them, shooting at the two supersoldiers. 

“Get behind me!” Steve exclaimed, ducking behind his shield and pushing Bucky behind him.

Bucky ricocheted his shots off of the walls, hitting all of his targets perfectly in the stomach.

“They really don’t want us to get down here!” Steve stated, heaving exhausted breaths.

“There’s a hidden staircase in what we thought were civilian houses. I think every building in this town has one,” Clint said.

“What is under this town?” Sam muttered.

Finally getting to the bottom of the stairs, Bucky and Steve were greeted by a hallway of very angry people, armed and ready to fight.

“Could really use some backup!” Bucky said.

“Right behind you,” Tony said, flying in front of them and sending a shock to the other side of the hallway which knocked the crowd of enraged fighters unconscious. 

“That won’t hold them forever. We’ve got about ten minutes to get in and out,” Tony said.

“We’ve gotta split up. Scope out the place. Find the potential hostages,” Steve instructed. 

Taking their usual positions, they broke up, ready to search the cement halls.

The facility was industrial and damp, dull fluorescent light barely illuminating the long expansive halls. 

“I seem to have found some sort of physical training facility. Recently used,” Steve said.

“I found a medical facility that is much too advanced for where it resides,” Tony said.

“I think I found the torture room. I recognize the devices,” Natasha said.

“Lots of cells,” Clint said. “But no inhabitants.”

“I think I found some sort of classroom?” Sam said.

“I found a gun range,” Bucky said. “And a lot of guns.”

“Reconvene at the east end. I think I’ve found something,” Sam said.

The team hurried to Sam, running cautiously through the dark halls, and freezing at the sight.

At the end of the hall was a giant door made of thick metal.

“Well that’s not ominous at all,” Clint said.

“There’s a heat signature in there,” Tony said.

The team went silent.

“We’ve gotta get in there, right?” Sam asked.

“Of course we are.” Tony pushed to the front, examining the locks. “These are absolutely archaic. There’s not even any biometric scanning.” He unlatched and unlocked the various knobs and sliders until there was a loud and final ‘click.’ 

“We have no idea what’s gonna be in here, so be prepared for anything,” Steve said.

The team readied their weapons, preparing to fight as Tony pushed open the door.

The silence was thick and heavy as they all caught sight of what resided behind the door.

A frail yet muscular kid cowered in the corner of the room, shivering in just his boxers, chains attached to his wrists and ankles. However, he wasn’t just in the corner. He was in the corner on the ceiling. 

“Hey. It’s alright. We aren’t gonna hurt you,” Steve said softly.

The kid just clutched tighter to the ceiling, curling into a tighter ball.

“What’s your name?” Steve asked.

He didn’t respond.

“Do you… do you not know?”

He shook his head slightly.

“How old are you?”

He didn’t respond.

“Okay. Okay, that’s… that’s alright. We… we’re gonna get you out of here, okay? We’ll get you somewhere safe,” Steve continued. “We’ll make sure no one hurts you ever again. But you gotta trust us, okay? Do you understand?”

He cocked his head to the side, staring at him with confusion, fear still evident in his expression.

“Uh, guys? Not to freak you out or anything, but I’m pretty sure I hear ticking underneath the floors, and I don’t think that’s a good sign,” Bucky said.

“I hear it too,” Steve said softly. “Hey, we gotta get you out of here. Can you please come with us?”

“He’s not gonna willingly come with us,” Natasha told him.

“We can’t just leave him here!” Steve snapped. “Please, just let us help you.”

“We’re lookin’ at three minutes top, Cap,” Tony said nervously.

“We’re gonna have to take him whether he likes it or not,” Natasha said.

“We can’t just force him to—”

“It’s rather that or leave him here,” she interjected harshly.

Steve looked between her and the kid, conflicted. “Help me get him out of these chains.”

He, Bucky, and Tony rushed, cutting them in half to detach him from the wall.

“You have to come with us,” Steve said.

The kid stared at him, giving him no response, fiddling with the chains still hanging from his wrists.

“Hey,” Natasha cut in, voice stern and impatient. “You need to get down from there and come with us right now. We don’t have the time to sit here and convince you. You _have_ to trust us.” 

Comprehension sparked in his eyes, and rigidly dropped from the ceiling, standing at attention in front of the group, back straight and palms out.

“Follow us,” Steve said. “Stay in the middle. We don’t want you getting hurt.”

He nodded, robotically bringing himself to the center of the group.

“Avengers. Let’s go.”

The team ran through the halls, sprinting up the spiral stairs.

When they got to the surface, they gawked in shock at the sight of the bodies littering the grounds. The kid’s breathing shook, rapid and hollow.

“I’m getting traces of cyanide. They all took L-pills,” Tony stated solemnly.

They cursed under their breath.

The ground beneath them rumbled.

“This whole town is gonna collapse,” Bruce said.

“We better run,” Sam added. “C’mon,” Sam said softly to the kid. “Let’s go.”

They ran as far as they could, struggling to navigate with just the light of the stars and moon, and barely making it out of the blast radius as the whole town collapsed in on itself, engulfing into the ground.

The kid stared at the hole blankly, eyes watery.

“Let’s call the quinjet over here. I don’t think a two mile walk would be good for any of us,” Natasha said.

As the inevitable tense and heavy silence settled once more, all eyes fell onto the kid who wrapped his (still chained) arms around his torso, shivering and trembling.

Tony exited his armor, and pulled off his slightly grease stained AC/DC t-shirt, handing it to the kid. “Here. Put this on. It isn’t much, but I figure you need it more than me.”

The kid stared at the t-shirt.

“Can you not put it on? With the chains?”

The kid, conflicted, pulled the shirt on, threading the chains through the sleeve holes. 

In a grueling two minutes, the quinjet landed in the large field of grass. 

The kid gaped at the aircraft.

“It’s safe. I promise. It’s gonna take us somewhere safe. Follow us.”

His eyes glazed over, giving a nod and following with calculated steps.

“Here, put these on. It’ll keep you warm,” Sam said, handing him a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie.

Once again, he put on the clothes with hesitance, threading the chains through the sleeves.

“We should get those off of you, huh? Bet they’re uncomfortable,” he said.

“Currently functional. Unhindered and ready for any and all combat and training despite the current inconveniences,” he said, his voice high and light but spoken with weight and certainty that was an eerie contrast.

The Avengers were clearly made uncomfortable by the response.

“So, I was hoping I could ask you some questions. Nothing hard. Just want to get to know you a little more,” Steve said softly.

The kid stared at him.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“I will answer if you want me to answer.” He flinched, holding his palms up and out in front of him.

“We would like you to answer, but you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Steve assured.

“I will answer your questions,” he said with tentative confidence.

“Do you have a name?” Steve asked.

The kid didn’t respond, face souring.

“Uh, sorry, what should we call you?” 

“DV.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Stevie?”

“No. DV,” he said, enunciating it clearer.

“And what does that stand for?” he asked.

“Dependent Variable.”

The Avengers shared looks of confusion and worry.

“How old are you?” Steve asked.

“I do not understand,” he said, growing distressed.

“Like your age.”

This only seemed to distress him further. “I do not understand.”

“That’s okay. That’s alright. You don’t have to answer that one.”

He relaxed.

“Who were those people?” Natasha asked.

“My owners,” he responded.

“Do you know who they worked for?”

“The Greater Good.”

She paused. “Why did they take you?’

“To prepare me for The Reckoning.”

“What is The Reckoning?” she asked, intrigued but cautious.

“The detriment to all humanity only to be conquested by artificial perfection.”

“What is this artificial perfection?” Tony butted in.

“Me.”

This answer gave them all an unsettling shiver in their spines.

“Did they do something to you to make you this artificial perfection?” Natasha asked.

“DV has been enhanced physically and mentally to prepare for The Reckoning. Enhancement injections are and have been admitted with a biweekly frequency, some varying alpha tests and some improved and adjusted supplements.”

“What did they enhance?” Tony asked with morbid curiosity.

“Injections have enhanced DV’s hearing, sight, strength, agility, reflexes, stamina, speed, balance, and healing.”

“And the sticking thing. Is that an enhancement too?” Clint asked.

“Correct,” he said with a nod.

“Did they hurt you?” Steve asked gently.

“Of course,” he replied with confusion, clearly unsure why they didn’t know what he seemed to think was the obvious answer. “Pain ensures compliance and obedience.”

Bucky stood up abruptly and excused himself to the front of the quinjet.

“I’m gonna go with him,” Steve stated quietly, following him with urgency.

“Are you hungry?” Sam asked.

He looked to them with a questioning gaze, trying to analyze their expressions as if the question were a test. “I have not earned my food.” 

“You don’t have to—” Clint started.

“You answered our questions. That means you’ve earned your food,” Natasha said, giving Clint a pointed look.

The kid relaxed, his shoulders untensing but his back still straight.

“You allergic to nuts?” Sam asked.

“Dependent Variables are incapable of human imperfection such as allergies.”

Sam paused and gave an awkward bob of the head. “Right. Here ya go. It’s a protein bar.”

“Thank you,” he said. He nibbled at the protein bar, but went rigid in confusion. The chocolate coated peanut butter stuck to his molars. “This is… not protein.”

“Yeah it is. It’s got peanuts. That’s protein,” Clint said.

“This is not protein,” he repeated, clearly fearful of their reaction. “This is nutritionally insufficient. The Dependent Variable will not be nourished adequately.”

Tony snapped his finger in realization. “He’s got enhanced metabolism. I can’t imagine what crazy science abominations of super food they gave him, and we just gave him a fucking glorified chocolate chip cookie. He’s clearly overwhelmed by the taste.”

The kid nodded meekly.

“How about some water and some crackers to hold you over ‘til we get back to the compound?” Tony suggested, handing him a pack of saltines and a big water bottle.

“Thank you,” he said again, his voice strong and truly grateful. He munched on the crackers slowly, savoring each bite.

“I know that this counts as Avengers’ business, but I don’t think harboring an enhanced child is really Avengers jurisdiction,” Clint said.

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“I mean, we can’t just randomly take and house a child, right? That’s not just a thing we can do,” Clint replied.

“I’ve got a lawyer. I think these circumstances can grant temporary guardianship, considering. Though, someone’s gonna have to take the plate as official guardian, since I”m pretty sure six romantically uninvolved people, well except for the two freezer burnt popsicles over there, can’t get joint guardianship. Plus, it would get too much attention. People watch what Tony Stark does, let alone the whole Avengers team.”

“I’ll get guardianship,” Sam announced. “I’m still a civilian under the eyes of the public, and I’m qualified.”

“And it’s not like it’s gonna fall on you,” Tony said. “We’re all pitchin’ in doin’ the guardianship thing because though this isn’t Avengers jurisdiction, this is Avengers business, and I’ll be damned if we don't do everything we can to help this kid.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of suicide attempt

The DV’s new owners were very strange. It didn’t quite understand them yet.

They fidgeted more often than not, holding themselves with a gentle caution that starkly contrasted his last owners’ unwavering confidence and brutal lack of hesitance. They preferred not to be called ma’am and sir, instead giving it individual titles to address them as.

They gave it food for insufficient reasons. Their reasons did not make sense to it. It _knew_ the ways it earned food, the _only_ ways it earned food, and their qualifications did not exemplify prior established rules.

However, they were new owners. They had new rules. So the DV would have to learn them. 

The DV was good at learning new things. In fact, it was exemplary. It did not know when and how, but at some point in its life, it was graced with an intuitive, perspicacious, sharp mind. Its mind worked at rapid speeds, able to analyze, memorize, and apply any information it is taught. It had a vast knowledge of many things. It was especially skilled in combat and its own biochemistry. However, its most prominent expertise was in The Reckoning and its preparation for The Reckoning.

Its life had been shaped to serve The Greater Good. Its sole purpose as a Dependent Variable, as artificial perfection, was to face The Reckoning if and when it arrived.

The new owner’s flying machine landed atop a building so tall that it could see for miles. When it dismounted from its stairs, it stared out at the lights sprinkling the dark, peppering soft ambers and blinding whites. It snapped its head forward to its owners, awaiting instruction, holding its palms out to receive punishment for being so foolish to be distracted by such frivolous things.

However, punishment did not come. Owners “Steve” and “Sam” led it into a small metal box. It clenched its eyes shut, once again preparing itself for the inevitable punishment. But it soon realized that they were prolonging the wait. 

One of its old owners would use this tactic. He would hesitate before he punished the DV. It would make the DV second guess its own behavior training, to question if what it did was really against protocol, and send it into a self-inflicted panic. Then, he would finally perform the usual physical punishment, and the DV would no longer be stuck in the unknowing. 

It did not like the wait. It would prefer if they would just punish it now so its insubordination was acknowledged and it could reform its ineptitude to further avoid the next.

The metal box hummed and the DV did not understand the shift it felt beneath its feet. The owners seemed unbothered by the metal box and what appeared to be a slow descent.

Although petrification festered in the DV’s bones, sweaty palms dampening the sleeves of the unusually soft garments it had been given, it did not express the emotion. Its emotion was irrelevant.

The metal box opened into a hall unlike any hall it had ever seen.

It was pristine and clean. Transparent walls lined the hall, looking out to the speckles of light it had been admiring before. 

It looked straight ahead, following its new owners, not allowing itself to be tempted by the lights.

Steve pressed his hand on a panel on the wall that glowed a bright blue.

With a buzz, whir, and click, the wall disappeared, revealing a hidden room behind it.

This was its new living quarters, it comprehended.

Its new living quarters, just like the hall, was unlike anything it had ever seen.

Its last living quarters were a cold, hard grey. In the center of the back wall was bucket, in the right corner was the water it’d get cleaned up under and the left corner was where it was chained. 

This living quarter was soft and warm. Its walls were a light cream, smooth to the touch with no mold or mildew coating its surface. The floor was cushy, springy and soft under its feet. It had lights in the ceilings, something its previous living quarter did not have. However, its eyes had been trained and adjusted to the darkness, and these lights made its head pound and strained its eyes. It was quickly becoming fatigued and that was unacceptable.

It pushed away its discomfort and continued to scan the room. There was some sort of soft table pushed to the center wall covered by a large cloth and a strange cloth-covered rectangle it had never seen before. The soft table evoked a sense of familiarity that the DV did not understand.

In one corner of the room was a large wooden box, rectangles with little spheres protruding atop them. In the other a table with the same rectangles and a chair.

It immediately noticed the door on the far wall.

It stared at the door, anticipating whatever would be lurking behind.

“So, this is gonna be your room for now,” Steve said. “I know it’s not much, but we didn’t really have time to prepare anything special. There’s clothes in the dresser, socks and underwear on the top, shirts below that, and pants below that. We’ll, uh, let you get settled in. If you need anything you can ask JARVIS. Say hi, J.”

“Hello,” a voice said.

The DV jumped, searching frantically for the source.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Yeah, he’s… he’s an AI. Like a…” Steve stopped. “He’s a talking computer. So, if you have any questions or need to contact one of us, just ask him.”

“Understood,” the DV said, still shaken up and disoriented.

“Someone’ll be right with you. We just gotta discuss. Alright?”

“Affirmative,” it replied.

Steve’s smile faltered. The DV’s heart hammered, readying itself for the inevitable punishment. Punishment was further delayed to its dismay, as Steve gave a small nod. “Right. We’ll… someone’ll be right back.”

Steve and Sam exited the door, the wall shutting behind him. 

The DV had not been giving orders, so it remained at attention, listening through the wall to its owners.

“What the hell are we gonna do?” It heard Steve ask.

“I don’t know,” Sam replied.

“He’s just… he’s just a kid. He’s gotta be, what? Eleven? Twelve?”

“I know. I know.”

“But he’s… he’s obviously not a normal kid. Just talkin’ to him, I mean, _Jesus._ This is just like Bucky all over again, except I don’t think this kid had a life before all of this. It won’t be… we don’t know how to handle this.”

“Wasn’t Nat trained from childhood? She got deprogrammed.”

“I did,” Natasha said as she approached them. The DV inferred from the footsteps that the rest of its owners had arrived.

“How did you?” Steve asked.

“It wasn’t easy,” she said. “And it’s not gonna be easy for him.” She paused. “ _But_ it’s not impossible. Clearly, he’s got a lot of misinformation bouncing around in his brain, but he’s also undoubtedly been mistreated. That’s a lifetime of dehumanization on top of what seems to be some sort of brainwashing.”

“So what do we do?” Clint asked.

“We show him kindness. We teach him about the real world _slowly_. We stick with him with patience and do our best to show him that there’s a better life than what he has had.”

“And how do we do that?” Tony questioned.

“There’s not just a how to guide on this, Tony,” Natasha snapped. “Right now, there is a scared child in that room that is confused and scared, so someone needs to go in there and show him basic human decency.”

“I’ll go in,” Bruce said. 

“Are you sure?” Tony asked. “Last thing we want is the green guy popping in and—”

“I’m fine,” Bruce interrupted. “I think it’ll be important for him to feel comfortable with me considering I will most likely be the one performing his physicals since I figure he’s already quite overwhelmed with the seven new people he met today?”

There was a pause.

“Right,” Steve said. “Bruce it is. Everyone get cleaned up and get some rest. We’ll reconvene in upstairs for mission debriefing at ten hundred sharp tomorrow morning.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Clint said.

After a long lapse of silence, the group broke out into hushed mumbles; the sound of their footsteps grew distant as they made their way down the hall. 

The door opened.

The DV straightened its spine, awaiting its orders.

“Hey, there. We talked briefly on the ride here, but my name’s Bruce.”

The DV stared at its owner, awaiting its orders.

“Do you have to go to the bathroom? That was a long ride.”

The DV felt its jaw clench, brow furrowing just momentarily. 

It did not have an answer for this question. None of its training had prepared him to adequately answer to its owner. It could not risk giving the incorrect answer, so it remained silent.

“If you have to go to the bathroom, you can go. You don’t have to ask.”

Its eyes darted around the room, distressed.

“What’s wrong? What do you not understand?”

It relaxed. A question it could answer.

“I do not know what ‘the bathroom’ is,” it responded.

Bruce froze. The DV prepared for punishment. _Wrong answer wrong answer wronganswer…_

“Well, you know when you feel a pain right here,” he pointed to his abdomen. “And then you expel a liquid or a solid?”

The DV nodded with confusion.

“Going to the bathroom is that. But you go to a room called a bathroom with a thing called a toilet, and you urinate or defecate there.” He walked to the door that it had been surveying. “Here, let me show you.”

The DV tentatively followed.

The room was bright. It had pastel blue walls with a large box with bigger and thinner rectangles with spheres, topped with stone that was concave in the center and metal knobs ( _new punishment device?_ ), a large curtain with a strange pattern on it closed around a giant, white ceramic bucket, a strange white ceramic thing that sparked hidden memories deep within the DV’s mind, and a plane on the wall that showed the room but in reverse. Bruce was in the image and so was another person that it had never seen. 

This other person looked feeble and unintimidating. Their face was gaunt and sharp, most likely from malnutrition, making them an easy target to apprehend and combat. However, their gangly limbs, though thin, were packed with dense muscle. Perhaps they were not as unworthy of an opponent as it had originally thought. Their hair was short, barely covering the shape of their scalp. Their eyes, a warmer and darker shade than their hair, were frightful and timid. _Fear that it could use to its advantage._

The DV froze as the person in the plane moved. It leaned back, and so did the person. It was only then did it realize that the reverse Bruce was moving in tandem with the Bruce that stood beside it.

_Was this person in the reverse plane the DV?_

“This is a toilet,” Bruce said, pulling it from its thoughts. “Have you seen one before?”

The name finally revealed itself to the DV, clawing to the surface. “Potty.”

Bruce jerked, surprised.

_Wrong answer wronganswer…_

“Did you have one in the last place you stayed?”

The DV shook its head. “Bucket.”

Bruce’s face morphed into the look that new owners would have when they would observe punishment sessions. 

_What did it do wrong? Whatdiditdowrong?_

“You had a bucket?” Bruce asked.

“Fill bucket. Empty bucket.” 

Bruce paused. “Do you know how to use the toilet? The potty?”

Old training flashed in its mind. Owners with fluffy brown hair and kind eyes who spoke with it with a gentle patience, praising it when it succeeded to use the potty.

“Affirmative,” the DV replied.

“If you need to use it—” Bruce stopped. “If you feel the pressure here,” he pointed to his abdomen again, “and you know that you need to expel those liquids or solids, you can use the potty whenever you need to. You don’t need to ask to use it. We expect you to use it when you need it.”

“DV has been trained in self-sufficiency for bodily maintenance.”

Bruce paused. “Right.” He led the DV to the concave stone. “There’s a toothbrush and toothpaste right here. Have you ever brushed your teeth?”

_The owner with long fluffy brown hair smiling in a bathroom very different than the one that it was in now. The taste of bubblegum on his teeth and tongue._

The DV shook its head.

“Well, you put toothpaste, that’s this, onto the toothbrush. You turn on the water and wet it. Make sure to turn off the water after you do that. Then you take the toothbrush and toothpaste, and you press it against your teeth, and you move your hand back and forth in small circles. You have to get every part of your teeth, and your tongue too. Oh! And don’t swallow the toothpaste. We got you orange ‘cause we figured mint might be a little too aggressive.” He handed it the supplies. “Here. You try.”

It followed the directions, the tangy taste of ‘orange’ overwhelming its taste buds, relaxing as it saw Bruce was pleased by its performance.

“Good. Very good. Then, once you’re done, you just wet your toothbrush again, and brush again to rinse off some of that toothpaste. If there’s lots of toothpaste and water in your mouth, spit it out into the sink.”

The DV did so. Bruce smiled again, assuring the DV that its training so far was adequate. Perhaps even exemplary.

“Then finally, get some water and rinse out your mouth. You can just swish it in your mouth and spit it out.”

The DV finished, looking to its owner for further instructions.

“And that’s how you brush your teeth! You did a great job. You have to brush your teeth twice a day. Once in the morning after you wake up and once before you go to bed, so remember to do that to keep up your oral hygiene.” He paused with a wince. “We’ll have to get you to a dentist at some point, but for now, it’ll have to be fine.”

Bruce pulled open the curtain, revealing the large ceramic bucket and strange metal knobs and circles. 

_Punishment punishment punishment…_

“Last, but certainly not least, there’s the shower. You’re free to use it tonight if you’d like to get cleaned up.” Bruce saw the confusion in the DV’s expression and continued. “It helps you get clean. The water comes from this thing right here,” he pointed to the circle hanging from the wall, “and you stand under it and wash yourself. You turn it on with the knobs down here. You have to pull this right here if you want it to come out of the shower head.”

The DV thought back to its ‘shower’ at its old living quarters. The cold, slimy water that was tinted green that came from the pipe in the corner of his room was nothing like this ‘shower,’ but it inferred that it served the same purpose.

“Understood.”

“You can use the soap to help,” Bruce said. “Do you know what soap is?”

“No.”

“Well this bar of soap is for your body. This is shampoo. It’s for your hair. You use it first. You rub it into your hair until you cover all of it, and then rinse it out in the water. The conditioner is the same, except you use it after the shampoo. You don’t need to use a lot. Just about this much.” He made an ‘o’ with his fingers and put it on top of his hand.

“Understood.”

“Then, when you’re done, you use the towel to dry off and change into new clothes. Do you want me to choose them for you?”

The DV stared at its owner. A trick question, surely. It did not have a choice in the matter. Its owner chooses everything for it.

It did not earn the clothes it was wearing, let alone a change so soon, but these owners had different rules than its old ones.

It would learn. 

“I’ll just go grab them, then.” Bruce came back in with a pile of clothes. “I’ll leave you to get settled and clean. Let JARVIS know if you need anything. He can answer any of your questions.”

“Understood.”

“Okay. I’ll just… yup.” Bruce exited the bathroom, leaving the DV on its own.

It ran through its orders.

_Use the bathroom. Take a shower. Change into new clothes._

The first was the easiest. Using the potty was essentially the same as using the bucket. It roared after it had finished as the water cleared, making it yelp in shock. 

The shower was the more daunting task.

The DV turned the knob on the shower and water came gushing out of the bottom metal tap.

“Pull,” it said as it remembered its instruction.

It yelped as frigid water cascaded aggressively against its head. It stumbled back, landing onto the cold tile.

The DV stripped from its ‘temporary’ clothes, but stopped abruptly.

The air was being filled with some sort of thick water smoke. It made its breaths feel damp and blocked. The reverse plane disappeared in a thin film of the water smoke.

_What was this?_

The DV could not dwell on the water smoke. It had orders.

It stepped into the shower, and winced at the scorching hot water that blasted against his back with pressure that could only be compared to punishment.

This was not like usual cleaning. This was punishment.

Something in it was relieved to finally receive its punishment. At least it knew that some things remained inevitable.

It gritted its teeth as it lathered its hair with shampoo, tears prickling in its eyes as it stood under the searing stream to ‘rinse.’ It repeated, keeping itself out of the water as it put in the conditioner, and returning to ‘rinse.’ Body soap was the most grueling. To rid itself of all the dirt and grime coating its skin like it was told, it stayed under the water for a full five minutes. The prolonged pressure pounded against its skin. It was unbearable.

Its cleaning was finally adequate. It could turn off the water. The DV stepped out, tight chest heaving in the water smoke through ragged breaths. Its skin was a bright pink and raw. There was a lingering ache so unlike, yet so familiar to past punishments.

The DV went to pick up its new clothes, and its eyes went wide in shock. _Soft. So soft._

Its old clothes did not compare to these new clothes. They were tough and abrasive on its sensitive skin. These were inconceivably luxurious. Too luxurious for a DV.

But it could not question its owners, even if it were to correct their improper handling. DVs did not receive luxuries. DVs were worthless and created to serve their owners and The Greater Good.

It marveled at its pants. They were an impossibly comfortable material, stretchy at the waist band and loose fitting.

It would not be practical in combat. But it was not going to express the concern. It didn’t want its new owners to take them away.

It exited the bathroom, the air much clearer than the bathroom that was suffocating with water smoke.

One of its owners, Steve, sat on the soft table. It flinched in shock.

“Hey. I brought you some food,” Steve said.

“I have not earned my food.”

“Well, you followed our… orders to use the bathroom and take a shower, so you have earned your food.”

The DV stared at him with disbelief, but cautiously plodded to the soft table.

“C’mon. Sit with me,” Steve said.

The DV sat on the soft table, squawking in surprise as it dipped where it sat. 

“Brought you something simple. Figured you would want something simple.” He began to point at the different foods. “These are fingerling potatoes. Got some green beans too. And this is some chicken breast.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” Steve said with a smile. “I’m gonna sit with you while you eat if that’s alright. Enjoy my meal with you.”

It cocked his head, eyebrows furrowed. It did not know why this new owner was telling it this. It was basic protocol. “It is imperative that an owner is present during feeding so that the DV does not attempt to choke itself again.”

Steve froze. “Do you think I’m your owner?”

It blinked. “Yes.”

Steve’s face contorted in the way that Bruce’s had before. The way it had before he received ‘shower’ punishment. It placed its hands out, palms up, hoping its owner would be gracious and give it its usual punishment. _Not the shower again. Please, not the shower._

“Hey. You did nothing wrong. You’re not going to be punished.”

The DV relaxed. Verbal confirmation. It continued to eat.

“You, uh, you said that you tried to choke yourself,” Steve said, breaking the silence. “Why did you do that?”

“DV had found a malfunction in its eating patterns. If the DV consumed large pieces of protein quickly, its airway would be obstructed. This discovery led to more cautious eating patterns. However, the DV deduced that this obstruction could cause eventual death. It did not utilize this information until injection ninety six, when the effects had become unbearably painful. The DV, in a moment of weakness and mental malfunction, then attempted to obstruct its airway so it would no longer have to be in pain. It was found by its owners and resuscitated before it could achieve a successful death, and new precautions were put in place to ensure that the DV would not attempt such foolishness again.”

Steve stared at it, mouth agape and eyes watery. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that that’s happened to you. And that you— even for just a moment— I just.” He closed his eyes and took a long breath. “I’m sorry.”

“ _I_ am sorry,” the DV reflected back immediately. Owners are not sorry. DVs are always sorry. DVs are always to blame. 

Steve did not speak again.

It ate beside Steve for thirty seven minutes. It knew it was not allowed to eat quickly, and it knew not to be foolish enough to not savor the food it received since it did not know when its next meal would be.

It looked to Steve, awaiting orders.

“How about you get some rest. It’s been a long day, and I’m sure you’re exhausted.” He turned to face it. “Here. I’ll take your plate.” He grabbed it and got up to leave. “JARVIS, hit the lights when he gets settled, please.” He smiled and opened the door. “Sleep well.” 

And then he was gone.

The DV pulled itself off of the soft table and headed to the far corner of the room so it could see the whole room. 

Settling on the cushy floor, another luxury it had not once had before, it drifted into sleep, the harsh lights fading away to darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Discussions of death and experimentation, brief mentions cannibalism

When Sam entered the kid’s room, he didn’t expect to see him curled up in the corner.

The kid jolted awake and pushed back against the wall as he cowered from Sam.

“Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

The boy blinked at him silently.

“What are you, uh,” he cleared his throat, “why did you sleep over there?”

“It is expected that DVs stay vigilant,” he explained.

“Oh,” Sam said with realization. “You like to be able to see everything.”

“Correct.”

“Well, we can move your bed over there so you can,” he suggested.

The kid stared at him, head tilted.

“Have you never had a bed before?” Sam asked.

The boy’s eyes darted around frantically; he shook his head slightly.

Sam walked over to the bed, placing his palm on the comforter. “This is a bed. You sleep on it. You don’t have to. Sleep on it, I mean. That’s all up to you. But you can sleep on it if you want to because it’s more comfortable than the floor.”

He furrowed his brow, clearly over-analyzing the new information.

“Here. Wanna help me move the bed? We can make it face out so you can see the whole room.”

He nodded, walking robotically to Sam.

To his surprise, he picked it by himself, carrying it with complete ease, setting it where he wanted it.

“Or… you can do that.”

The boy stared at the pillow that had fallen onto the carpet.

“That’s a pillow. That’s where you put your head when you sleep,” Sam explained. He picked it up and placed it back onto the bed.

The boy mouthed the word to himself, astonished by the concept. 

“We were hoping we could ask you some questions today. Try to understand more about you and your, uh, your owners.”

“You are my owner,” the boy said with unsettling certainty.

“Right. We… right. But we aren’t like your old owners. So, we just want to know more about your old owners.”

“I will answer your questions."

“Awesome.” Sam opened the door. “You wanna get ready and then we’ll head upstairs?

“To achieve oral hygiene, DV must brush its teeth every morning.”

“That’s right!” Sam said. “I’ll leave you to it, and we’ll get on our way.”

The kid exited the bathroom, flashing his teeth at Sam in more of a tight grimace than a smile.

“Very good,” Sam praised. “C’mon. Follow me.”

The walk was silent, and Sam would be lying if he said that he wasn’t completely uncomfortable and out of his element. But he kept up the facade of nonchalance, hoping that the kid didn’t see right through it, and led him through the tower.

Natasha suggested that they hold the interrogation (and, yes, even though she insisted that it was just a simple questioning, he knew what it was) in a room without too many distinguishing features so not to overwhelm the kid.

Sam didn’t know how he felt about that, but he trusted that Natasha knew more than him about the whole ‘child raised by a twisted organization of death’ thing.

Natasha sat in the grey loveseat in a pastel pink blouse and jeans, very unlike her usual everyday look.

“Hi,” she said, her voice calculatedly kind. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Natasha.”

“I remember,” he said, quickly snapping his mouth shut and looking at her with fear.

“How ‘bout you take a seat? We’re just gonna chat. There’s water on the table if you get thirsty.”

He eyed the water suspiciously as he sat on the couch across from her.

She sipped at her water silently, flipping through her notes while Sam took a seat beside her.

The kid scanned the room, nodding as he noticed the exits and windows. His fingers fidgeted at his side; his body trembled slightly.

“You alright?” Sam asked.

The boy froze, staring with wide eyes back at him.

“It’s a little chilly in here,” Natasha stated to no one in particular. She turned to the kid. “Are you cold?” 

“Currently functional,” he responded, teeth chattering.

“Well, I think it would increase your functionality. Being cold inhibits your reaction time and makes you lethargic. And if you’re shivering, you won’t have a steady grip if you were to go into combat.” She got up and handed him a grey eyelash sweater. “So, being at a comfortable temperature is important.”

“Affirmative,” he said, taking the sweater from her. His mouth fell open as his fingers met the fluffy fabric. “I-I did not earn this.”

“Consider it a necessity to combat the disadvantages that arise with being cold.”

He nodded and slipped it on. His eyes fluttered shut, and a low hum rumbled in his throat. He hugged his torso, treasuring the feel of the fuzz.

“So, I have some questions for you. If you don’t know the answer, that’s okay. You won’t be punished if you don’t know. Just say you don’t know, and that will be an acceptable answer.”

“Understood,” he said, posture straightening and eyes going hard with determination.

“Do you know who your old owners were?” she asked.

“I do not understand.”

“Did they have names?” 

“Sir and Ma’am.”

The two frowned, Sam giving Natasha a concerned glance which she responded with a hard, but minute shake of the head.

“How long were you with your old owners?”

He paused, deep in thought. “How many weeks are in a year?”

“Fifty-two,” Sam said.

He paused again. “About ten years and three months.”

A small gasp escaped Sam’s lips that Natasha glared at him for.

“What did you do there? Did you have a routine?” she asked.

“Physical training on Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday. Activities vary, but constants are laps, weight training, hand to hand combat, and gun training. If DV’s performance is adequate, it earns its food. If performance is exemplary, it earns a clean. Monday, Wednesday and Friday is cognitive training. If DV’s performance is adequate, it earns its food. If performance is exemplary, it receives clean clothes. Every other Saturday, there are injections followed by observation. The other Saturdays are power accumulation tests.”

“Why are you called a DV?” Sam questioned.

“Because I am a Dependent Variable,” he said. 

“And what does that mean?” Natasha continued.

“Dependent Variables are necessary for the detriment of The Reckoning. Their role in The Overcoming is to be further enhanced until reaching peak artificial perfection.”

“Are there others?”

“The others were inferior,” he said, wincing slightly. “They could not withstand the enhancements.”

“So you’re the only one that has survived?” 

“Correct.”

“How?”

“Answer uncertain.”

“So that’s why you were so heavily protected. You’re the only one that survived all of their tests.”

“Correct.”

She wrote for a moment and looked back up. “The others. What happened to them?”

He took a moment to think. “DV-1 through DV-22 died after the first injection. DV-24 through DV-68 died between the first and thirty-fifth injection. There was only one outlier.”

“You,” she finished.

“Correct.”

“And how many injections have you had?” Sam asked.

“Two hundred seventy-six.” 

Silence fell, tense and thick.

“You said DV-68. There have been 67 others?” Sam said.

“Correct.”

The silence returned, the two taking a moment to comprehend the morbid information.

“So where did they get all these… DVs?” Natasha asked.

“DVs are hand chosen from those who are forced into nothing,” he recited.

“Are they all children?”

He stared, blank and confused.

“Do you not know? It’s okay if you don’t.”

“What is…” He licked his lips anxiously. “What is a children?”

Sam shot Natasha a look of disbelief. He pulled out his phone and Googled a growth chart. “So, there are different stages of life. There’s infants that look like this who are one years old or younger. Toddlers are one to three years old. And children are four to twelve years old.” He clicked through some photos. “These are all children.”

“Yes. All DVs are children.”

“So, children that are forced into nothing,” Natasha said. “What does that mean?”

“I do not understand.”

“What did you mean when you said forced into nothing?”

His eyes moved frantically, his body still unmoving. “I do not know.”

“That’s okay,” she reassured. She leaned back into her chair, showcasing that she had no intention of hurting him. “What happened to these DVs?”

“Once deceased, they were used as nutritional protein for the owners.”

Sam’s head snapped to face Natasha whose jaw was clenched, holding back her reaction. Sam, however, was having trouble processing it without his face projecting it like a movie screen.

“Let’s take a water break,” Natasha said. “Don’t want you to be dehydrated.”

The kid nodded, and grabbed his glass, sipping slowly and carefully.

Sam gaped at him, flabbergasted and horrified. Natasha, taking notice of Sam's intense stare, mouthed a sharp ‘cut it out.’

‘I’m sorry!’ Sam mouthed back, eyebrows raised as if to say ‘seriously, what the fuck?’

“Do you need more water?” Natasha asked. 

“Currently functional,” he replied.

“Alright. I’m just gonna refill it just in case you get thirsty while we’re talking.”

The kid didn’t respond. Instead, he just watched as she poured.

As she sat back down, he returned to his pin straight posture.

“So these injections. What did they do?”

“Injections are performed every fortnight. Each injection focuses on a different specification. Most were benign and insubstantial.”

“And which ones weren’t?” 

“Those providing DV enhanced hearing, sight, strength, agility, reflexes, stamina, speed, balance, healing, and adhesive ability.” 

“And the rest were benign, you said?” 

“No intended outcomes came from other injections.”

“But there were unintended outcomes?” she inquired.

“Correct.”

“Which were?”

“Nausea, fevers, diarrhea, loss of appetite, loss of weight, rash, hives, vertigo…”

“We got it. Thank you,” Sam interrupted.

Natasha crossed her legs. “So you mentioned that they were preparing you to become artificial perfection. Did they train you at all?”

He nodded. “DV is prepared for hand to hand combat and has been trained with various firearms ranging from shotgun, lever action rifle, semi automatic rifle, machine gun, and especially in sniper rifle and pistol. DV has been taught the intricacy of battle strategy and planning. DV understands every idiosyncrasy of its physical and mental enhancement and can perform necessary maintenance.”

“Do you need maintenance?” Natasha questioned.

He fidgeted with the sleeve of Natasha’s sweater. “Currently functional.”

“You said that they hurt you. Are you currently injured?” 

His breathing quickened. “DV has already healed. Currently functional.”

“Hey, I think that’s enough for today,” Sam cut in.

The kid let out a sigh of relief.

“Let’s get you back to your room and have some early lunch. You earned it.” He winced at his choice of words. “You gonna catch the team up?” he asked over his shoulder, as he walked the kid out.

“Already on it,” she replied. “You gonna be okay?”

Sam looked to the boy who tugged at his sweater’s sleeves, teeth biting softly on his lip with a sad smile. “We’ll be okay.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Implied/referenced past rape

On the way back, Clint had stopped Sam and the kid in the hall, holding a tray of food. 

“Thought we could eat together,” Clint said with a bright grin. “Give you a break after…” He motioned vaguely with his hand.

“You sure?” Sam asked, trying his best to show how grateful he was in his tired smile. 

“Tash can catch me up. Really. Go chillax. Even despite everything, we  _ did  _ wrestle giant worm monsters not even twenty four hours ago. We’ll be fine. Just two guys hangin’ out.”

Sam, too exhausted to politely argue, thanked him sincerely and headed to his floor.

“My name’s Clint, in case you don’t remember,” he said as he led the kid to the elevator.

“I remember."

“Good memory.”

“DVs’ memories are enhanced to process information at the highest caliber of excellence.”

Clint, not showing he was fazed by the statement, just nodded. “Well, you’re gonna have to put up with me and my normal person memory in my normal person brain. Not everyone can be as smart as you.”

“It is unlikely that most with ‘normal person brains’ would exemplify the intellectual advancement of a DV.”

“Yeah, I figure not,” he said with a shrug. 

They approached his room, Clint opening with his hand scan, balancing the tray on the other. “Oh, God. This is why I can’t be a waiter. How the he—ck can they do this sh—tuff?” He set the tray on the bed.

Surprisingly, the kid wasn’t looking at the food at all. Instead, he was glaring holes into the dresser.

“What’s up?” Clint asked.

“I smell something new in there.” He pointed at the dresser.

“Oh! Right.” Clint pulled open the bottom drawer, revealing an array of fluffy sweaters. “We figured you might want more of these, so we ordered them while you were talking to Nat and Sam.”

“I did not earn these,” he said, eyes darting anxiously about.

“Yes, you did. You did very good answering our questions, so we thought we’d get you something to keep you comfy.” He cleared his throat. “To combat the disadvantages of the cold and all that.”

“Then I did not earn my food. I can only earn one reward.”

Clint hesitated, scouring for the right answer. “Well… you did two sessions of questions. So the first session counts for the clothes and the second for the food.”

His shoulders loosened, a small breath escaping his lips. 

“Bon appetit, kid.” When he stared at him with a blank gaze, Clint snapped his fingers. “Right. It means you can eat now.”

The kid, relaxing at the statement, sat on the bed, digging into the meal with deliberate and calculated slow movements.

They ate in silence for a good fifteen minutes before Clint was getting antsy. 

“You know, I’ve got two kids around your age.”

He tilted his head to the side curiously.

“Well, we don’t exactly know your age, but I think you’re around theirs.” He nodded. “Anyways, you just remind me of them.”

“DVs are incomparable to those inferior to artificial perfection.”

“Well, that’s not true,” Clint said, his tone still light. “My son, Cooper, he’s very literal, like you. Sarcasm just goes through one ear and straight through the other one.” Clint, noticing his furrowed brow, gave a small shrug. “Sarcasm? It’s like, uh, how do I explain it. It’s when you use a certain tone when stating something to indicate that you actually really mean the opposite.” The kid’s brow furrowed deeper. “What’s on your mind?”

“What is the purpose of sarcasm? Orders should indicate the exact intentions.”

“Well, sarcasm is used in casual conversation. It can be used to show disdain towards something or it can be used when you’re joking around with friends.”

The kid mouthed ‘joking around’ to himself as he stopped chewing, just for a moment. 

“But, yeah. Maybe someday you guys can meet each other. I know Lila is dying to have an arching buddy who isn’t her old man, and I’d bet that you’d pick it up quick.”

The kid opened his mouth, but snapped it shut, eyes screwing closed tight.

“Hey. It’s alright. Did you want to ask something? You can. Ask away.”

His eyes hesitantly opened, his lips still pursed. “Please… please tell me more.”

“About my kids?” Clint asked.

The kid nodded.

“Oh, well, where do I start? Coop’s the oldest. He’s got the brains of the family. Loves school and ‘s good at it too. He’s gonna be thirteen in a coupla months, and I think he’s getting to his rebellious phase soon, and I don’t know how I’m gonna handle that, but for now, I’m just holding onto his youthful innocence and curiosity, and wishing it would stay the way forever.” He paused. “You’ve got a lot of that too. Curiosity.” 

The kid’s eyes went wide.

“No, no. It’s a good thing. A really good thing. Curiosity means that you want to learn. And that you’re inquisitive. That you’re open to new things and want to figure out how they work. Do you think that sounds like you?”

After a long pause, he gave a small nod.

“Coop’s little sister, Lila, is too stubborn for her own good. She’s smart. A little too smart sometimes if you ask me, and she always wants to do the right thing, even if how she gets there isn’t the right way. It’s something she’s gotta learn, but I think that’s something you can’t teach. You can’t force an epiphany moment. You just gotta let someone figure it out on their own.

“We’re close, me and my kids. Especially me and Lila. She’s a bit of a daddy’s girl, which I pray to the Gods above that she doesn’t grow out of. Cooper’s always been a mama’s boy, so I’m glad I’ve got my little girl. My wife, Laura, is the glue that holds us together. She’s kind and compassionate and patient, but she doesn’t put up with our shi—enanigans. We’re not a perfect family. Far from it. But it’s ours, and that’s what matters.” He paused. “Do you… remember having a family?”

“DVs do not have families,” he stated, though his firmness did not cover his uncertainty.

“And why’s that?” Clint asked.

“Their allegiance are bound to their owners and to serve The Greater Good.”

“So that means you can’t have a family?”

“Correct.”

“Well, you know, you had one at some point,” Clint said casually.

“Incorrect.”

“No. I’m correct. Every human being, even enhanced ones, were created by a mother and father. I don’t know anything about yours, but I know for certain that you had one at some point.”

“Incorrect,” he repeated, breath quickening.

“Hey, it’s okay. Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“The DV does not have a mother or father. It was created to combat The Reckoning for The Greater Good,” he said with a harsh edge.

“Okay. Alright. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, pulling at his sleeves.

Clint knew not to push it, already kicking himself for crossing a line he shouldn’t have. Instead, he shut his mouth, and watched as the kid finished his meal.

“You done?” Clint asked once his plate was clean.

“Affirmative,” he replied.

“I’m pretty sure Tony wanted to stop by, so he should be here any—” 

The door beeped, revealing Tony holding a comically large travel mug of coffee and a sparkly red gift bag with gold paper.

The kid gawked at Tony, sniffing the air at the scent of his expensive coffee.

“I guess I’ll get out of your hair,” Clint said, taking the kid’s tray. 

“Thanks, birdbrain,” Tony said. “If you’re heading up, don’t clog up my vents with pizza bite crumbs!”

“No promises, Stark!” he called, heading out the door.

“Hey kiddo,” Tony greeted the kid, who still stared at him with a bewildered gaze. “Now, I’m sure staring at the walls for hours is totally great, but I figured you’d want something to keep your mind occupied because from what I can tell, your brain is not meant to be kept idle. So, I brought you some toys.”

The kid tilted his head. 

“So,” Tony said in a sing-song voice. “This is for you.” He handed the bag to the kid. “Go ahead. Open it up. See what’s inside.”

The kid spent a good few minutes just examining the gold tissue paper, holding it up to the light to see the metallic sheen, crumpling it in his palm to hear the crunch.

Finally, he returned to the bag, pulling out a shiny white box. He knocked on the cardboard with his knuckles, struggling to grasp what it was.

Tony opened the box for him, not knowing if he would realize there was something inside. “So, this is a tablet. It’s to give you something to do while you’re sitting in here. Keep your brain busy.” He placed it on the kid’s lap. “So, to turn it on, you gotta press this button here.”

He did so, mouth parting in astonishment as the screen came to life.

“Then, you press this button to get to the main screen. Yup. Just like that. Great job.”

The kid beamed, body loosening at the praise.

“So if you click here, you’ll see it’s connected to a virtual library. S’got millions of books right there at your fingertips, but I figured all that choice might be overwhelming, so each of us chose one book for you to try out. They’re all different genres, and it’s just so you can see what you like the most. Do you… do you know how to read?”

The kid blinked blankly.

“And that’s a no. Well, it’s got audiobook functions so you can listen to the books too.” He clicked the back button. “Just click here if you want to go back to the main screen. Got it?”

“Understood,” the kid said with a nod.

“Here you’ve got movies and shows. I figured YouTube would make your brain explode if we introduced that too early.”

The kids eyes shot up, wide with fear.

“That was hyperbolic. Not literal. Just meant, uh, so much choice, and... right.” He cleared his throat. “So, there’s a mix of fictional and nonfictional entertainment. Again, we’ve all chosen one thing each to give you variety and see what you like.” He scanned over the titles and snorted. “Who put in  _ My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic _ ? It was Barnes. It had to be Barnes.”

Tony shook his head and clicked out. “Right here are the games. We chose puzzle games since I figured it’ll be good to keep your brain stimulated but not overwork it too much, and not rot it with complete mindless entertainment. It has tutorials before every game, so you should be able to figure it out. You still with me?”

“Affirmative.”

“Awesome. Finally, we’ve got the music app. It’s got playlists made by all of us, and there’s a like function, so if something catches your eye, or ear, then you can just leave a like and it’ll be added to your personal playlist.”

The kid’s head was cocked to the side, one eyebrow raised. 

“Music. You… don’t know what music is. Okay, that’s, wow, okay. I guess I should’ve figured that but, uh, okay. Well, it’s like talking except it’s melodic. People play instruments and sing… okay, don’t know what singing is either. Let’s just—” He clicked a random song, classical violins playing. 

The kid sat up straight, muscles tight and stiff. His eyes searched the room frantically.

“Okay. No classical music. Got it.” He turned it off quickly, and the kid let out a breath of relief. “J? Can you wipe any and all classical pieces off of this tablet?”

“Already done, sir,” JARVIS replied.

The kid jumped.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. He takes some getting used to. I know.” He clicked a different song, one with upbeat acoustic guitar and plucky piano. “So this is music. There’s lots of different kinds. This one’s country I think. Who actually listens to country? Right. Not the point. But music, it’s… it’s all supposed to make you feel something. There’s lots of things that go into a song. There’s the melody, the way the person is singing the song. And then there’s the lyrics, the words they’re singing. And then there’s the instrumental, the way the instruments work together with chords and harmonies and rhythm. It’s… honestly pretty confusing, now that I’m saying it all out loud. But you don’t have to get it all right now.”

He turned off the song, the room being filled with the void of silence once more. “So. Try something out. You can choose an audiobook, something to watch, a game, or music.”

The kid stared at the screen, tongue poking out as he considered his choices, overanalyzing all of their benefits and disadvantages. But after a grueling three minutes of deep pondering, he clicked the book app and clicked the first choice.

_ “Porous Metal–Organic Frameworks for Heterogeneous Biomimetic Catalysis written by Min Zhao, Sha Ou, and Chuan-De Wu. ‘Metalloporphyrins are the active sites in monooxygenases that oxidize a variety of substrates efficiently and under mild conditions. Researchers have developed artificial metalloporphyrins...’” _

“Oh, don’t know how that got on there. You don’t have to—” He froze as he caught sight of the kid, eyes closed with a blissful smile on his thin lips. Tony felt a smile of his own creeping onto his face. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.” He got up. “You have a fun time.”

The kid went rigid, eyes snapping open. His brows shooting up as his trembling fists clenched at his sides. “Fun Time?”

Tony gave a curt nod, unsure what had triggered his sudden worry. “Hey, what’s up? What’s wrong?”

The kid let out a shaky sigh and got on his knees in front of Tony. He began to pull at Tony’s belt.

“Woah! Hey! What are you doing?!” He exclaimed.

The kid jolted back, still on his knees. “You said it’s Fun Time.”

Tony blanched, throat burning with bile threatening to rise up. “I didn’t… that’s not what I meant. Shit, is that… is that what you think that meant?”

The kid nodded, terrified eyes not leaving Tony’s as he put out his hands, palms up.

“You’re not in trouble. God, no, you’re not— you’re not in trouble and you’re not— you’re not gonna do whatever you were just about to do, okay? That’s not what I want.”

“What  _ do _ you want?” the kid asked, voice wavering.

Tony’s breath hitched. “I’m gonna go. Enjoy your tablet. I… have to go.” He opened the door, bolting out of the room, the kid watching as the door closed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: discussion of past rape, needles

The DV was on edge.

After its disastrous encounter with Tony, it could not focus on the endless tasks that it was ordered to browse. Instead, it scrutinized the interaction in its mind, replaying the conversation until it could piece together what it had done wrong.

The DV finally came to the conclusion that Fun Time was initiated due to its outward expression of its own selfish pleasure when it had been listening to its audiobook. Its happiness led to punishment.

Therefore, it mustn’t do that again.

It laid on its bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to understand the significance of “music” while it focused on a conversation from the floor below it.

“I just don’t see how I’m the best person for this,” it heard Sam say.

“We don’t want to introduce him to too many new people,” Bruce said. “And he’s familiar with you.”

“Hardly. We talked on the quinjet, we talked about, about  _ beds _ for like five minutes before I took him to Natasha’s interrogation and found out the most twisted, fucked up shit I’ve ever heard — and believe me, I’ve heard a lot — and  _ then _ I had to just sit there and listen and act like everything was fine so I didn’t scare him more than he already is. And he’s fucking petrified. I know he… he’s stoic and stolid, but he’s clearly terrified. I mean, shit, he thinks we’re his owners! How can I look at him and act like everything is normal when he thinks that I’m his, his, his owner? I can’t— this kid has been through hell, Bruce. I don’t know how much help I can be.”

“You’ve helped hundreds of people at the VA. You know how to stay level headed. And you have with him. I know you’re freaked out. We all are. It’s taking everything I can to not go green from just the glimpse of his past and the way he’s been treated. But you are kind and perceptive, and I know you can read when he is uncomfortable which is gonna be very important. He’s got a lot of trauma, and I’m guessing a lot of it’s gonna be around medical examination and what he assumes is going to be torturous experimentation. We want him to feel relaxed and comfortable and distracted.”

“So, what do I do?”

“Just hang out with him. Talk to him. Distract him. You can play a game that won’t require lots of movements or read him a book. Just something to make him not think about what I’m doing and to let him have positive associations with medical examinations.”

“I just don’t think I’m the right guy for this. I mean, it’s different working with adults. Working with vets. I know what to expect. But kid that’s been brainwashed and experimented on for ten years? Uh, yeah. That’s not in my ballpark. That’s miles from my ballpark.”

“Please, Sam. You know why I’m asking you and not the others. You know how to stay neutral.”

“Natasha knows how to stay neutral.”

“She can also be abrasive and her neutrality comes from years of precision and practice. It’s too practiced. The kid’s been through a lot, but he’s also smart, and he needs someone genuine.”

“And you think I can be?”

“I know you will be. You care about him. You wouldn’t be this upset if you weren’t. So, show him that you care by being there for him how you can.”

Sam sighed. “What time should I be in the medbay?”

“Ten tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there.”

The DV pulled away from their conversation and focused on the hum of the pipes in its room. It knew that it would have to go into the shower again soon. It dreaded the moment it would come to that, cherishing the long lapse between punishments.

Its new owners were sparse with their punishment, but their punishments were erratic in nature and taunted the DV with the unknowing. It was stuck in the unknowing.

The DV turned on its tablet, putting the audiobook that made it feel safe again, knowing that it could not let its owners know how much it meant to it. 

It let the words wash over it, holding onto the warm buzz that went all the way down to his toes. The DV didn’t quite understand it yet, but it knew that it never wanted to let it go.

The next morning, the DV woke up on its own and brushed its own teeth, avoiding the stony gaze of itself in the reverse plane on the wall in front of the concave stone. It did not like knowing of its constant presence, moving as it did. It did not like that this reverse person was it, for it preferred to be ignorant of the knowledge that it too looked like a person. That it moved like a person. That it could  _ be  _ a person. It preferred when it was faceless, preparing itself blindly to combat The Reckoning for The Greater Good.

Because when the DV saw itself in the reverse plane, it got hope that it could be even more, and that terrified it. 

The DV rushed out of the bathroom as it heard the approaching footsteps of its owner, standing at attention in the center of the room.

Sam entered, giving the DV a soft smile. “Morning,” he greeted. “You’re still in the same clothes as yesterday.”

The DV’s head tilted to the side.  _ Cause of dissatisfaction unclear. _

“You should change into new clothes everyday,” Sam said. “Especially new underwear. I-I know you didn’t really do that at your old… with your old owners, but that’s something you should do.”

“I did not… earn a change of clothes,” the DV said sceptically.

“Well, here, it’s not something you earn. It’s…” he snapped his fingers. “It’s a new part of your routine. You don’t have to earn new clothes because it is now a necessity to ensure hygiene.” 

“Hygiene,” the DV repeated. The word was becoming a recurring theme with its owners’ new rules. It did not understand, but it would. It would have to.

“That’s right. Like you brushing your teeth or taking showers.”

The DV tensed at the mention of the shower.  _ What had it done to warrant punishment? _

“Shower?”

“You don’t have to take one right now. Just make sure you get one every other day at least. Alright?”

“Understood,” the DV said, head hanging lower than it had before.

“So, today, we’re gonna go see Bruce in the medbay for a quick check-up. Just making sure everything is okay physically. Get a better understanding of you and your body so we know how to help you in the future. Sound alright?”

“Affirmative,” the DV replied.

“You wanna go get changed before we head out?”

The DV knew that this was a rhetorical question. It did not have a choice in the matter. It  _ must _ change its clothes daily for hygiene. 

It went to the large wooden box and pulled out a new pair of clothes, pulling the first item on the far right of each rectangle with spheres.

As it pulled its current clothes off, Sam interjected him with a “woah!”

The DV froze.  _ What did it do wrong? Whatdiditdowrong? _

“You shouldn’t change when someone else is in the room,” Sam said.

“DVs are expected to change in front of its owners,” it said.

“Well that’s, uh, that’s not how we do it. If you’re changing and someone is in your room, you should go to the bathroom so you can do it in private.”

“DVs are not entitled to privacy. Constant surveillance ensures compliance and obedience.”

Sam’s knuckles cracked as he clenched them by his side. “Well, you are entitled to privacy here.”

“Oh.” With hesitance, the DV headed to the bathroom, shutting the door behind it before changing.

This new red sweater, uninhibited by a shirt beneath it, was inconceivably soft against its skin. It reminded itself that it could not express its delight and comfort or else it would lose it and be punished. Holding onto the excess fabric that pooled over its fingers, gripping on the fluffy fabric, it exited the bathroom, trying to keep a blank expression.

“You ready?” Sam asked.

“Affirmative.”

The walk to the medbay was longer than its walk to the room from the day before. The hallways were a calming blue with sparkling white tiles. Though it surveyed the halls for exits and possible points of attack, it didn’t let its gaze drift away from its owner. It could hear the heartbeats of people inside of the rooms they passed, but the halls themselves were completely empty.

“And we’re here!” Sam said, breaking it from its thoughts. “After you.”

The DV entered the room, heart sinking. “I-it’s not Saturday.”

Sam’s smile fell. “No, no. You’re not here for— for that.”

The DVs brows furrowed.  _ Then why was it here? _

“Remember? Just a check-up.”

“Check-up?” The DV repeated.

“Here. I’ll let Bruce explain,” Sam said.

The DV turned to face its other owner, sitting straighter. 

“So here’s how we’re gonna start. I’m gonna use this right here,” he held up the metal circle attached to thick wire, “to check your heart and lungs to make sure you’re breathing is okay. Then I’m gonna use this,” he held up a portable light, clicking it on, “to check your eyes, ears, and throat. After that, I’m gonna take your blood pressure, and the physical examination will end with a quick blood draw. Does that make sense?”

The DV nodded. “Affirmative.”

“Alright. I’m gonna have to put this down your shirt onto your bare abdomen and chest, so it might be a little cold. You ready?”

The DV just gave a silent nod, clenching its jaw as it prepared for the contact. It hissed slightly as the cold metal met its chest.

“Can you take a deep breath for me?” Bruce asked.

It did so, thankful that the metal was already warming.

He moved it to several places on its torso, commanding it to take breaths. 

_ Simple orders. Easy compliance. _

“Great job. You did really great,” Bruce said.

The DV let out a breath of relief.  _ Exemplary performance. _

“Okay. Now I’m gonna use this light to look into your eyes really quickly. It’s gonna be bright. Alright?”

It nodded.

The light, like Bruce said, was bright. It made the DV squint, and left lingering obstructions in its vision. 

“DV is malfunctioning.”

Bruce shook his head. “Your photoreceptors are just readjusting after being overwhelmed. It should pass in just a minute.”

The DV felt the tension draw from its body.  _ It was not malfunctioning. _

“Can you open up your mouth and say ‘ahhh’ for me?”

It did so, unsure of the significance of the order.

Bruce hummed. “Alright. Very good. And I’m just gonna check in your ears, alright?”

It nodded.

Bruce clapped softly. “Part one is done. You did fantastic. Really great job.” He pulled out a plastic rectangle. “I’m gonna take your blood pressure now. It’s gonna squeeze your arm, and it might hurt a little bit, but it’ll just be for a moment. Then, once I’m done, I’m gonna take some blood. Have you ever had your blood taken?”

“Often,” the DV responded.

“Alright. I’m gonna put this around your arm now.”

The plastic was thick and confining, feeling stiff and odd on its arm. It was focusing on the pressure constricting its muscle when Sam gave it a small smile.

“So, I brought you something,” he said. 

_ Vague statement. Unspecific. Reward or punishment? _

He pulled out a small plastic vile. 

_ Punishment,  _ it realized with a shaky gasp.  _ What did it do wrong? WhatdidIdowrong? _

“They’re called bubbles,” Sam said, opening the vial, revealing a glistening plastic circle on a stick. “You blow into this right here, and bubbles come out.” 

Sam blew into the plastic circle, and beautiful iridescent spheres appeared in the air, sparkling and shining under the white fluorescent lights. The DV went to grab one, but it exploded, disintegrating into a splash of sticky liquid. It yelped.

“They do that,” Sam said with a light chuckle. “Bubbles are made of soap and water. When you blow air into the wand, the soap films wrap around the air and create the bubbles. You wanna try?”

The DV tentatively grabbed the ‘wand.’ It huffed out a harsh stream of air, a bubble appearing at one end and immediately popping. It frowned.

“You’ve gotta find the perfect blow. Not too hard, not too soft.” He grabbed the wand. “Here, you gotta dip it back into the bubble solution after every blow.” He handed the bright yellow plastic to it. “Try again.”

The DV timorously blew, little bubbles erupting from the other side, swirling and dancing as their rainbow glow shifted in the light.

The warm buzz in its chest returned. It was the same warm buzz that it felt when it listened to its ‘audiobooks.’

It went still. The DV steadied its breathing, wiping its lifted lips to a neutral expression.

Sam’s smile faltered. 

_ He knew. He knew that it enjoyed the bubbles. Its pleasure will be punished. _

“What’s wrong? You don’t like the bubbles?” Sam asked.

_ Trick question. Punishment is imminent. _

“It’s okay if you don’t. I just thought you’d like them.”

“I…” The DV swallowed thickly. “I enjoyed the bubbles. I enjoyed them immensely.”

“Then what’s wrong?” Sam asked.

“DV’s pleasure is unacceptable. It has been selfish and its focus has been diverted. It must be punished for its insubordination.”

Sam and Bruce both went still, sharing a look that the DV could not decipher. 

_ Punishment is imminent. Punishment is… _

“We want you to be happy,” Sam said. “That’s… liking things? Having preferences? And things that make you feel good? We want that. We aren’t gonna punish you for things like that.”

“Fun Time was initiated when the DV outwardly expressed delectation.”

Sam blanched. “No. No, that… that’s not what happened.”

The DV scrunched its brows in confusion. “That was the only logical cause.”

“Tony didn’t mean to— he didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did he ‘mean it?’” the DV asked.

“He didn’t realize that that phrase had that meaning.”

“That is the only meaning,” the DV stated.

“Actually, there’s many meanings. What Tony had meant was that he wanted you to enjoy your tablet.”

“He… was reinforcing the DV’s contentment?” it asked, flummoxed.

“Yeah. He saw that you were happy, and he wanted you to keep being happy. That’s why he was leaving.”

“He was… leaving.” He swallowed hard. “But… he was upset.”

“Because he didn’t mean for you to think he wanted… that he wanted what you thought ‘Fun Time’ meant,” Sam explained.

“That was the only meaning,” the DV repeated.

“Well you’ve gotta learn the new meaning. Having fun doesn’t mean… that. It means to do things that you enjoy. And to be happy.”

“You want the DV to be… happy?”

“Well, don’t force it. It’ll come naturally.”

The DV took a long pause as it evaluated the new information. “Bubbles make the DV happy.”

Sam grinned and handed it the plastic vile. “Well, you can get back to them while Bruce continues.”

“Try not to move your right arm, and just relax,” Bruce instructed. “Would you mind putting your palm up?”

The DV took a sharp breath.

_ Palm up? They just said no punishment. _

“It’s so I can get to your veins easier,” Bruce explained. “Again. You’re gonna feel some pressure and a little prick, but you said you’ve gotten blood before, so I think you know what to expect.”

The DV did not respond. Instead, it dipped the bubble wand back into the plastic vile and began to blow bubbles.

It marveled at the bubbles, their delicacy and impermanence making their short-lived presence ever the more special. It was absolutely astonished.

“And that’s it!” Bruce said, pulling its focus from the bubbles that had yet to pop. “Now, I wanted to talk to you about something. Would you prefer Sam to stay in here or would you like some privacy?”

The DV glanced to Sam. “I would like Sam to stay.”

“Alright,” Bruce said with a nod. “Remember, if you are uncomfortable at any point, you can stop me.”

The DV hesitated. “Understood.”

“I wanted to ask you about… about Fun Time.”

It went still. “Is Fun Time being initiated?”

“No!” Bruce said quickly. “No, no. It’s not. I just… we just want to understand it.”

“Because you will eventually initiate it.”

Sam’s jaw clenched.

“No, we won’t. We will not and do not plan to  _ ever _ initiate that,” Bruce said. “But your old owners, by doing that, they have hurt you in ways that are inexcusable, and we need to understand what they did in case they have hurt you in ways we can help.” He pulled out a small stuffed replica of a human. “I’m going to point to places on this doll, and you can just affirm if you have or haven’t been touched there.”

The DV did as it was told, confused. Its owners seemed on edge, as if they were expecting some sort of outburst from the DV. They almost appeared off-put by its calm apathy towards Bruce’s questions.

Its continuous affirmations further distressed its owners, though they were making futile attempts to mask their reactions. They were not subtle. The DV saw through their cover.

Bruce droned on about things the DV didn’t understand. These things seemed to matter a lot to him, but meant nothing to the DV.

Fun Time was just another constant in the DV’s life. The DV was just an object to be used by its owners. It often hurt, but most things did.

But Bruce continued to repeat that what was initiated in Fun Time was unacceptable. Bruce said that the DV would never again be subjected to Fun Time. He gave a long lesson about touch and what was acceptable touch. Apparently, most touch that the DV had experienced was unacceptable. 

“If you are ever touched that way by  _ anyone _ you tell one of us,” Bruce had said. A simple order that it could log away and follow. Finally.

New rules. New concepts that the DV did not understand. New things that it would have to learn to understand.

When the DV gave a verbal affirmation to the finish of Bruce’s long tangent, he nodded and cleared his throat awkwardly. “To finish, I just wanted to evaluate some of your cognitive functions.”

“Cognitive training?” The DV perked up, finally intrigued.

“Uh, no. Just, checking some basic skills. Memory, problem solving, that sort of thing.”

These cognitive tests were infantile. The DV droned through the simple tasks, folding a paper in half two times, holding up its different fingers, touching its toes. However, it was soon matched with a task it could not perform.

Bruce had told it to ‘read.’ something that Tony had asked of it days prior.

It looked at the words and letters on the paper, the notation of foreign yet familiar shapes burning into its brain blankly. It recognized these shapes, these words and letters, but it didn’t know how to comprehend them. How to ‘read’ them.

It also didn’t know how to ‘write.’ It also could not understand how to hold a ‘pencil’ (apparently, it was not supposed to grip it like a combat knife). Once taught proper handling, it could replicate the letters that it had seen with ease, but translating spoken word to written was making its head spin and temples throb.

It got a moment of relief when Bruce had it replicate patterns. It could copy shapes. It could copy lines. ‘Drawing’ these ‘pictures’ were simple.

Bruce scribbled in his notes. “Okay. We’re gonna finish off with some repetition exercises. Please repeat these three items. Apple, penny table.”

“Apple, penny, table,” the DV repeated. 

“Repeat these motions.” He opened and closed his fists, showing his palm fully when they opened.

It repeated.

“What were the three words I had said earlier?”

“Apple, penny, table.”

“Very good.” He nodded. “Let’s continue with something a little more challenging. Repeat after me. Tom threw Tim three thumbtacks.”

“Tom threw Tim three thumbtacks.”

“A cup of proper coffee in a copper coffee cup.”

“A cup of proper coffee in a copper coffee cup.” The DV did not understand Bruce’s surprise. DV’s memories were exceptional. These simple combinations did not compare to the hours of cognitive training it performed every other day for years.

“Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.”

The DV froze.

_ “Oh Peter, my beautiful boy,” the owner with long fluffy brown hair said, running her fingers through his own fluffy brown hair. “I love you so, so much. We’re gonna be home before you know it. We will call you the moment we land.” _

“...you okay? Kid?”

The DV snapped back to the present, body trembling slightly. 

“Peter,” it whispered.

“Peter,” Bruce repeated. “Is that your name?”

It… the DV…  _ Peter _ ’s eyes darted around the room, its throat tightening as a weight on its chest grew heavier and heavier. It nodded.

Bruce hesitated, but eventually put down his notepad. “I think that’s enough for today. You did really great, Peter. You did a fantastic job.” He smiled. “It’s been a couple days since you showered. You should try and take one before you have lunch. Good hygiene is important.”

Peter’s breath grew more unsteady, its eyes going wide.

“Do you… not like the shower?”

_ Trick question. Trick question. _

“Shower hurts.”

“Have you tried baths?” Bruce asked.

Peter stopped, head tilting in curiosity. 

“Let me show you.” Bruce turned to Sam. “Thanks for everything, Sam. You’re good to go.”

“Glad I could help,” Sam replied, giving a small pat to Bruce’s back.

Bruce guided Peter back to its room, the DV’s palms sweating by its side the entire journey back.

The man had explained that it was an alternative way of cleaning to showering.

If it was anything like showering, then Peter wanted nothing to do with it.

Bruce led him to the bathroom. “So this basin that you stand in when you take showers is called a bathtub. If you close this right here, it traps the water in the bowl and you can sit in it to get clean.” He switched the water on. “Hold your hand under the water and tell me when the water is most comfortable.”

“Comfortable?” Peter questioned.

“The temperature. When it’s not too hot and not too cold.”

_ Criteria. Order. The DV understood this. _

Peter placed its hand under the water, waiting until it didn’t leave a chilly sting. “Now,” it said when the water was a perfect, neutral lukewarm.

Bruce’s face flashed with surprise, quickly covered by his usual calm smile.

“You liked those bubbles earlier, right?” Bruce asked.

It nodded.

“Well, we can get some bubbles in here too.” He poured a thick clear liquid from a brown bottle into the water. “This is vanilla coffee. Hopefully it’s not too overwhelming. You seemed to like the scent of coffee.” He swirled his hand in the water.

The DV watched in amazement as thick, white bubbles accumulating into giant mountains.

“Washing in the bath is very similar to washing in the shower, but you lay in the bath instead of standing up. And the water is idle, so you won’t feel the pressure from the shower head.” 

The DV gave a nod of affirmation, still spellbound by the bubbles.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Bruce said, switching the water off before it overflowed and closing the door as he exited.

Peter pulled off its clothes with reluctance, not wanting to part with the fuzzy fabric so soon.

When it dipped its foot in the water, it relaxed. It didn’t hurt like the shower, and it also wasn’t the slimy, frigid water like in its old living quarters.

As it sank down into the water, learning quickly to not let the water go above its nose, it felt its muscles release all of their tension, mind clearing as the intoxicating scent of ‘vanilla coffee’ filled its senses.

It grabbed the shampoo from the shelf, rubbing the slippery goop on its head, relishing in the lack of urgency as the suds built in the coarse hairs. It scratched its scalp, rubbing circles languidly. 

It tipped its head back into the water, comfortable and relaxed. 

When Peter began to rub the conditioner, eyes fluttering closed at the feel of its fingers, it found itself humming.

_ The owner with short fluffy brown hair massaging fruity conditioner into its hair, singing softly. His voice was a rumbling low, yet breathy and light. “Splish splash, I was takin’ a bath. Long about a Saturday night.”  _

_ The DV splashed the soapy water, giggling and squealing in delight.  _

_ “Oop!” he exclaimed, voice still jovial. “Be careful, bud. I still need to see.” He laughed again as the DV splashed the water again, the owner’s glasses smearing with droplets of water. _

_ He slipped them off, wiping them on his bright button up.  _

_ “A rub dub, just relaxin' in the tub thinkin' everythin' was alright!” Peter belted out, squeaky voice cracking. _

_ “You gotta stop singin’ for a bit, bubba. Daddy’s gotta get that soap outta your hair,” he said, filling a little plastic bucket with bath water. _

_ Peter snapped his mouth shut, cheeks puffs out and eyes squeezed tight. _

_ Warm water cascaded gently down his body, his father’s big, soft hands rubbing his brown locks as he rinsed the conditioner out. He whistled softly; it echoed in the little room. _

_ “Great job, buddy. Now, how let’s get you dried off and we can go have fudgepops.” _

_ Peter’s eyes went wide as his jaw dropped. “Fudgepops?” _

_ “Fudgepops,” he said, grinning. _

When Peter snapped back to reality, there were tears streaming down his—  _ its _ cheeks.

_ DV malfunctioning,  _ it thought, repeating the mantra as it escaped from the bath water, the once comforting embrace of warmth feeling like lead weights enclosing around it, smothering it until it was gasping for air. The gentle loving gaze of his father, his  _ owner, its _ old owner that it couldn’t piece the remnants of scattered memories from, burning into its mind. It scrambled to grasp onto the memory. It wanted to feel loved again.

It pulled back on its clothes from that morning, and curled into its bed, silent tears streaming down its face as it choked back the sounds threatening to escape its throat.

It knew it couldn’t want. It knew that it couldn’t hold onto the feeling of being loved.

It knew it couldn’t because it gave it hope.

And it couldn’t afford to have any.

Hope gave it too much to lose.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Vomiting and discussion of non-nonconsensual drug use
> 
> Major thank you to Whumphoarder for helping me write the vomit sequence. You're the vomit queen!!!

Peter laid on his bed, eyes shut, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

_ “...slow extension rates, similar to the movements of trapped insects, glycoproteins deform like an ideal elastic rubber band, which is essential in retaining…” _

“Good morning, Peter,” Natasha greeted. 

The boy’s eyes snapped open, rapidly shutting off his tablet, and sitting straight.

“You didn’t have to stop listening,” she said softly.

Peter didn’t turn the tablet back on. Instead, he stared at the tote bag hanging off of her shoulder and the large piece of foam board in her hand.

“I’ve brought you something. Thought it could be something we do together.” She pulled out the box.

Peter tilted his head in curiosity at the soft rattle from inside the brightly colored container.

“It’s called a puzzle. It’s a picture that has been split up into parts, and you have to put it back together.” She held up the box, displaying the colorful photograph of candy filled jars. “You have to do it on a flat surface or else the pieces won’t stay together.” She nodded to the foam board.

His brows scrunched deep in thought.

“What’s your question?” Natasha asked.

“We will… put the broken picture back together?”

“Yes.” She sat on the carpeted floor, laying out the foam board in front of her.

“And what is the picture… the puzzle...” He paused. “What is its purpose? Why must it be fixed?”

“It’s mental stimulation,” she explained. “It improves your visual-spatial reasoning, short-term memory, and mental speed, as well as exercising the left and right sides of your brain simultaneously.”

He nodded, taking in the new information. “Puzzles appear to be exceptional cognitive training. The DV has never been exposed to this form of ‘mental stimulation.’”

Natasha held back the urge to frown. She dumped the contents of the box onto the board. 

Peter peered at the floor quizzically.

“There’s a couple ways we can go about this. Choice one is to organize them by edge pieces and non-edge pieces first. Edge pieces are the ones with the smooth side, like this one.” she held an edge piece up, “that frame the picture. Then, once we find all the edge pieces, we build the edge and work on the inside after that. Or option two,” she picked up two magenta pieces, “we flip everything right-side up and organize them by color and pattern.”

“Which is the most efficient?” Peter asked.

“Well, you can always do the second option after you create the edge. If you only do the second option, then it’ll be more difficult to connect the pieces in the long run and put the dimensions into perspective. However, with puzzles that have specific patterns and a blank edge, it can be easier to compartmentalize, and you can always do the edges later.”

Peter stewed in his thoughts, fidgeting hands pulling at his sleeves. “I will choose option one,” he finally said, voice wavering, “and once we complete option one, we will continue to option two.”

“Option one it is,” Natasha said with a smile. She patted the floor next to her. “You can join me if you’d like. Or I can start while you finish your book.” 

Peter stared at the floor, eyes darting, conflicted.

“What’s your question?” 

“May I… join you  _ and _ finish my book?”

“Of course you can,” she replied.

He slowly pushed himself out of bed, tablet hugged tight in his arms as he went to sit next to Natasha.

He sat with his knees to his chest, head propped atop them.

“If you get uncomfortable, try sitting like this.” Natasha motioned to her legs. “Criss-cross applesauce, so the Americans call it.”

With hesitance, Peter shifted, rocking side to side, hands on his thighs. 

“You don’t have to sit like that if it’s uncomfortable,” she clarified.

“DV is comfortable.”

“What are we listening to?” Natasha asked, swiftly shifting the conversation.

“ _ Viscoelastic solids explain spider web stickiness _ ,” Peter replied. 

“You find that interesting?”

“I wish to understand adhesion,” Peter said.

“Because you’re adhesive.”

“Correct.”

“Well, I’m excited to learn more about it,” she said, a perky jubilance in her voice.

_ “...the insects trapped in the web long enough to be subdued by the spider. At high extension rates, the adhesive forces are dramatically enhanced because of high viscous effects…” _

A soft smile spread across Peter’s face. His shoulders went loose as he leaned over the puzzle and began to search for edge pieces.

To Natasha’s surprise, he tapped them with his index finger, the piece sticking to the pad, and then dropped them into a pile in the corner of the board without even shaking them off.

She had seen his adhesion, even if just for an adrenaline-fueled rush of a moment. However, seeing him use his powers with such nonchalance, something that he clearly had so much comfort and ease with, was fascinating.

He swayed as he collected the edges, relaxed from the monotonous drone of his audiobook and the repetitive yet intricate task at hand.

However, a half an hour in, the boy’s tranquil focus dwindled. His brows knit tensely as he squeezed his eyes tight with a soft groan followed by a phlegmy cough.

“Are you feeling alright?” Natasha asked.

“Currently functional,” he said, voice hoarse.

“May I touch your face?” 

“Affirmative,” he said, trembling hands clenching beneath his sweater sleeves.

As she placed her palm to his forehead, she sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re burning up.”

“DV is not ablaze,” he said, voice small.

“You have a fever,” she corrected. “Are you feeling ill?”

“Currently functional,” he replied nervously.

“It matters if you’re feeling ill. You said that your injections had side effects. Those matter.”

“DV is functional. It does not require maintenance.”

“What negative symptoms are you feeling?” When he didn’t respond, she continued. “It’s important that we know what you’re feeling. It could indicate that there’s something wrong, and we could help you so you don’t have any discomfort or pain.”

“Comfort and pain are irrelevant. DV is functional.”

“Well, it’s not irrelevant to me. To us. We want to hear when you’re feeling those things because then we can make sure you don’t feel that way.”

“But…” He clamped his mouth shut as he put his hands out, palms up.

“Hey. It’s okay. You can say it.”

He gulped, clearing his throat at the strain. “Why?”

“Why do we want you to tell us or why do we want you to feel comfortable?”

“Both.”

“Well, we want you to tell us because we want you to be at your… most functional. And that means you being comfortable and at your best health. Think of it as a status report.”

“Status report?” he repeated, head cocked to the side.

“You tell us the specific details of your physical health. If you are feeling no pain or discomfort, then that means that you’re at your best physical state. But, if you’re feeling any pain or discomfort, whether it be mild or debilitating, we want you to report that. So, if at any point, you feel uncomfortable or if something is hurting you, you report that.”

She shifted to face him. “As for why we want you to feel comfortable, it increases your functionality.”

His eyes went wide.

“Yeah,” she said, voice encouraging and light. “We want you to be able to perform at your best capacity. We want you to be able to make your own choices, and you can’t learn to do that unless you have an understanding of what makes you feel comfortable, whether that be comfortable in your surroundings, something practical like the clothes you wear, something personal like the temperature of your baths, or when you’re interacting with us.”

His tongue stuck out of his mouth as he nodded pensively.

“When you are comfortable and have an open dialogue with us about your comfort, we can better understand you and… utilize that information so that you are always at your top functionality.”

He stared silently for a pregnant pause, wringing his hands with calculated breaths. “DV is not at its best physical state.” He took another long breath. “It is experiencing a throbbing pressure in its head, a-and its throat is inflamed, and its nose is congested, and it is nauseous.”

“Well, I think you need to get some rest,” she declared.

His head snapped up. “Rest?”

“To regain your physical strength and be at your best physical state, you have to rest. Resting entails laying in bed, sleeping, and staying very hydrated.”

“Recuperation?” he asked.

“Exactly like recuperation.”

“But… DV is not injured or malfunctioning.”

“Well, it may not be like injuries you’ve gotten before, but you are still not a prime functionality. When your body is exposed to pathogens or other things that don’t belong in your body, like your injections, your immune system fights them off. These outside factors don’t belong inside your body, so your immune system is rejecting them. It is working extra hard to get rid of their negative effects and cleanse your body. So, you need to let your body rest so that it can do that.”

Peter didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled himself off the floor with a light groan, and slipped into his bed, pulling the covers up to his neck.

“Do you want to listen to your audiobook?” Natasha asked.

“Listening… hurts,” he said, teeth gritted as he struggled the words out.

“Does anything else hurt?” 

“Lights… hurt. And the bed armor. It… is rough. And itches.”

“The sheets?” Natasha asked, placing her hand on top of the comforter.

Peter mouthed the word to himself. “Yes. The sheets.”

“We can get you new sheets. And JARVIS? Can you dim the lights?”

“Of course, Miss Romanoff.”

Peter let out a soft sigh.

“Have the lights always been too bright?” Natasha asked, her eyes still adjusting.

“Affirmative,” he replied.

“Well, we’ll make sure that they stay dimmed until you can adjust,” she said. 

“Thank you.” 

“You said listening hurts. Is it because of your headache?”

“No,” he shook his head, jaw clenched. “Listening.”

Her lips parted as realization dawned. “You have enhanced hearing.”

“Affirmative.”

“And you can hear… how much can you hear?”

“Everything.”

Natasha went quiet. “We’ll help you, alright? We’ll make sure you will stop hurting.”

“Thank you,” Peter whispered. Before he could continue, he broke into a fit of harsh chest coughs.

“I’m gonna go talk to Tony to see if we can get you some new sheets and something to help with your overstimulation. Someone will come in to join you, alright?”

“Affirmative,” he croaked. 

As Natasha exited his room, Bucky entered, his face etched with concern.

“Hey, Peter. Heard you were feeling under the weather.”

“I cannot experience the weather in my living quarters. It is confined by walls.” He coughed again, holding his fuzzy chest with his eyes scrunched close.

“Here. Y’gotta sit up,” Bucky said. He rearranged his pillows, guiding him to an elevated recline. “That’ll help with the coughing.” He placed his flesh hand to Peter’s forehead and hummed. “Definitely got a fever. I’ll be right back.”

When he returned, he had a damp hand towel from the bathroom. He laid it onto Peter’s forehead. The boy sucked in a breath at the sudden change of temperature. 

“That should help bring it down,” Bucky said. 

Peter blinked at him slowly, eyelids heavy.

“You tired?” Bucky asked.

“Currently…” he stopped. “Affirmative. DV requires rest.”

“Get some shut eye. I’ll just hang out with you. Not sure if I’ll still be here when you wake up, though.”

Peter just nodded, his head lolling back onto the pillow as his eyes fluttered shut.

When Peter awoke again, Clint was sitting at his desk, the light from his phone illuminating his face as he scrolled.

“Hello,” Peter greeted, his voice somehow even more hoarse than it had already been.

“Morning, sleeping beauty. Or should I say afternoon?” He shut his phone off. “You have a good nap?”

“Feeling… slightly rejuvenated. Dull aches throughout whole body. Throbbing pressure still in head. Throat… more inflamed. Hurts. Breathing is difficult.”

“You probably need to blow your nose,” Clint said. “You know what that is?”

Peter shook his head.

“Here. I’ll show you.” He carried a box of tissues to the boy. He held one to his nose. “Just hold your mouth closed and blow through your nose into this.”

Peter grimaced at the sound.

“Gotta do it a couple more times. Get all that snot outta there,” Clint said.

The man, completely unfazed by the seemingly never-ending stream of mucus, was finally satisfied after six blows. He went to bring the trash bin to Peter’s bed, washing his hands before he came back.

“So, you’re not feelin’ too hot, huh?” Clint asked.

“Internal and external temperature is high.”

“You must be boilin’ in that sweater. Here. You should change into something cooler. This can’t be good for your fever.” He laid a plain t-shirt next to him. “And while you’re at it, I’ll get you some fresh sheets. Tony got you these Egyptian cotton sheets that must’ve cost a fortune and’ve gotta be a thousand thread count. Should be softer than the ones you’ve got now.”

Peter peeled his sweat-soaked sweater off and slipped on the t-shirt, the fabric clinging lightly to his toned torso.

“That better?” Clint asked.

“Much.”

“Good.”

Peter coughed again, and Clint covered his face instinctually. 

“I’ve got somethin’ to show you,” Clint said. “When you cough or sneeze, cough into your elbow, like this.” He over-exaggeratedly coughed, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. “It’s so you don't get other people sick.”

Peter mimicked him, giving a small nod. 

“Good, good.”

Peter sniffled loudly. “Nose has become congested again. DV requires a nose blow again.”

“D’you want me to show you how to blow your own nose?” Clint asked.

“Please.”

Clint was thankful that Peter was a quick learner. It was an absolute mess when he had to teach his kids, and it was not a fun mess to clean up.

“Here, let me know how these feel,” Clint said, smoothing out the covers on his beds.

The kid gasped lightly, cutting himself off with a stream of coughs that he covered. “They don’t… hurt.”

“I’m glad.” Clint was about to spring into a winded ramble to fill the silence when there was a knock on the door. “Uh. Come in?”

The door revealed Steve, a lunch bag in hand. “Hey, Peter. I brought you some of my Ma’s famous homemade broth. It’ll help with your throat and is easy on the stomach.”

“You stayin’ with him?” Clint asked.

“I can,” Steve replied.

“Did you bring water too? He hasn’t drank anything all day.”

“Three bottles,” Steve said with a smile.

“Alright. You take it easy, okay, kid?” Clint said.

“DV will continue to rest to recuperate.”

“Right. Enjoy your broth.” He gave an encouraging thumbs up as he exited.

“So, would you like to drink the water first or the broth?” Steve asked.

“What are the advantages to the options?”

“Well, the water doesn’t have a taste and the broth does, and you may not like the taste of the broth. However, the broth is warm and it’ll help with your sore throat and sinuses.”

Peter stared at the thermos. “I will choose broth.”

“You gotta be careful when you drink it. Don’t want you to spill,” Steve said.

“I will drink with caution.” 

Steve twisted off the cap and handed it to the boy who gripped it with quivering hands.

He took a slow sip and hummed in delight. “Warm.”

Steve chuckled softly. “Yeah, it is warm. Taste alright?”

“Exemplary.”

“I’m sure my Ma would be happy to hear that.” He sat at the edge of the bed. “I used to get sick a lot, and we couldn’t always afford soup, especially if I couldn’t keep it down, so she’d save the bad ends of our vegetables and the bones from the meat we managed to scavenge up at the time, and she’d boil it into a big pot of broth. We’d be drinkin’ it for weeks, but sometimes it was more flavorful than some of the real meals we could put together at the time.

“It became a staple in my diet. Bucky’s too when we moved in together. If we were cookin’, we didn’t want anything to go to waste, so we’d just save everything to put in that week’s broth. If we happened to get some potatoes or carrots or scraps of meat too, then that was just a bonus. But the broth kept us warm in the harsh winters, and helped me through all my colds and flus and, well, and the much worse. 

“You’d think that I’d be sick of the taste after having it for so long, but it tastes like home. It reminds me of sitting on my dingy couch in my dingy apartment, or my Ma’s fingers combing through my hair.” He shook his head. “Guess what I’m tryna say is I hope it’ll get you through this one too.”

“Throat hurts… less,” Peter said hesitantly. “Thank you for broth.”

“Of course.”

Peter sipped the broth at a glacial pace, eyes fluttering shut as he savored the taste of the rich liquid.

However, the serenity was abruptly halted when Peter brought a hand up to his mouth as he held his stomach.

“Do you have to throw up?”

“Throw up?” he questioned with a light gag.

“And that’s a yes.” Steve grabbed the trash can from beside his bed and pulled it onto Peter’s lap. “Aim in here if anything comes up.”

Peter retched into the bin, light sobs escaping his throat as he spewed out the streams of vomit. Steve rubbed gentle circles on Peter’s back. The room filled with the nauseating scent, making both of their enhanced noses wrinkle in repulsion.

When it finally slowed, and he was coughing up strings of bile, Peter spit as much of the revolting taste out of his mouth.

“Here. Rinse your mouth out,” Steve said, handing him a water bottle. “You just put the water in your mouth, swish it around by moving your cheeks, and then spit it out.”

Peter did his best, with a tentative uncertainty, spitting into the bin that sloshed with his sick.

“I’m gonna go get rid of this,” Steve said. “I think Tony was on his way to come bring you something.”

The door opened, revealing Tony, once again, making his grand entrance.

“Do you just wait for your name to be said?” Steve asked incredulously.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Spangles. I just have impeccable timing.” His nose scrunched. “And it is just absolutely abominable in here. J, can you amp up the filters in here? Get the air pumping so this God awful smell gets out?”

The vents whistled as they started up, a cool breeze circling the room.

“Better,” Tony said. “You can put that under the sink, Cap. J will send that one to the dump and replace it with a clean one.”

“Thanks, Tony.”

“I just think of everything,” he said with a shrug. He turned to Peter. “And since I did, I brought you something.” He pulled out a tall plastic cup and poured half a can of cranberry juice and ginger ale. “That should help settle your stomach  _ and _ get rid of the vomit taste. Little trick I learned in college.”

Peter gaped at the fizzing drink in astonishment.

“Carbonation,” Tony explained. “That’s what the little bubbles are. It might feel a little funny when you drink it, so drink it slowly. You don’t want to get hiccups.”

Peter, spooked by the mysterious ‘hiccups,’ sipped slowly at the drink.

“You don’t have to finish it. You can just drink until you get that taste out of your mouth. I imagine your enhanced senses must be going completely haywire and not in a good way.”

“Correct,” Peter mumbled into his drink.

“Well, I can’t help with the taste, but I did whip something up for your super ears.” He held up the contraptions. “May I touch your ears so I can put them in?”

“Affirmative.”

Tony squatted next to the bed. “It should form to the shape of your ear for the most comfortable fit.” He slipped the squishy bud in gently, the second quickly after.

Peter’s eyes went wide, jaw dropping as he took in a shaky gasp. He drew his hand to his ears. He rubbed his fingers on the devices, eyes glassy. “It doesn’t… hurt anymore.”

“Can you still hear me?” Tony asked.

His eyes snapped up to meet Tony’s. “Affirmative.”

“These should help you block out the excess noise when you’re overstimulated. I’m sure you know how to handle it on your own, but that must be pretty draining, so I figured something to shut it off would be a nice change.”

“I could always… I always heard everything. I could hear…  _ everything _ . I heard the DVs during their punishments and injections. I-I could hear their screams. I still… I still hear their screams. But now, I do not have to hear everything. I do not have to hear it all.”

Tony’s heart pulled tight in his chest. “I…” There was a ping. “Sorry, I have to check this.”

**Jolly Green: I got Peter’s tests back. You’re going to want to see this.**

“I’ve gotta head out now,” Tony said. “And you’re looking pretty dead on your feet.”

“DV is currently alive,” Peter stated.

“You know, with a deadpan as good as yours, you’d kill it on the modern comedy scene. It’s all the rage now. I mean, have you seen  _ The Office _ ? Don’t answer that. I know you haven’t.” Tony shrugged. “Anyways, make sure you drink some water before you get some shuteye. I don’t want to be the one responsible for letting you turn yourself into a snotty, dry sponge. Sam’ll be here any minute, so you two have f—” He cut himself off. “Get some rest.”

The walk to Bruce’s lab was grueling, partially due to Tony impatience, about to burst from morbid curiosity, and partially due to Tony’s muscles that had yet to recover from his three siestas with his legs propped up on his workbench that did no favors for his back.

When he entered, Bruce swiped hastily at his holo display, body covering the papers on his desk. He let out a sigh of relief. “Oh. It’s you.”

“What’s going on?” Tony asked, now more concerned than before.

“I got the blood test results back,” Bruce said.

“Yeah, I saw your text. Did something—” He sucked in a sharp breath. “How bad is it?”

"Well, I'll start with the good news. He hasn't contracted any sexually transmitted diseases."

Tony nodded, still holding his breath. "So the bad news."

“Take a look at his DNA patterns.” Bruce pulled up the diagram. “Now, compare it to Steve, Bucky, my, and your DNA.”

Tony’s mouth popped open. He leaned in closer, expanding the diagrams. “That’s…”

“Unlike anything we’ve ever encountered, yes.” He pulled up a new document. “Along with that, this is his tox report on his blood for the residual remnants from his ‘injections.’”

“Shit,” Tony muttered. “That is… a lot of chemicals that should not be in anyone’s body. How the fuck is he alive?”

“Years of immunity. He’s been getting these injections for over ten years every other week. His body must’ve built a resilience to them. I think, if anything, he’s gonna have a hard crash getting off of them.”

“Is this looking like the withdrawals that Barnes got?” Tony asked.

“The drugs weren’t as archaic and addictive, but it’s definitely not sunshine and flowers. We’re looking at doses of corticosteroids and anabolic-androgenic steroids that would kill a normal person ten times over. Not to mention the cocktail of Huperzine A, monophosphate, choline, and docosahexaenoic acid that was obviously used for his mental enhancements. With his enhanced metabolism, there’s no telling how he’s gonna react to getting off of these. Best case scenario, his system flushes and he is fine and dandy.”

“Worst case scenario?” Tony asked.

“He is dependent on these chemicals and his body has evolved to require these injections to survive. Or his powers become unstable, leaving him in medical limbo as we try to get a handle on the repercussions.”

“Let’s hope for the best, then,” Tony said softly.

“But, here’s what’s most, well, I won’t say fascinating. But, look.” He pulls up the DNA again. “This is unequivocally altered. Right? But unlike the super-soldier serum in Bucky and Steve and my DNA, it’s almost inhuman.”

“And?”

“That’s because it is.” Bruce swiped up a new DNA. “This is the DNA of a spider.”

“Holy shit,” Tony gasped.

“The spider DNA and his human DNA are homogenous,” Bruce said.

“That explains the sticky hands.”

“And that’s not all I found.”

“There’s  _ more _ ?” Tony asked exasperatedly.

“I ran his DNA to see if there were any matches in any databases. Now, obviously, it’s not the most reliable source considering its alterations, but I… I think I found a match.”

“You found his parents?”

“I think I did. And I think I figured out who he was before all of this.” He pulled up the file. “Richard and Mary Parker. They used to be SHIELD.”

“Used to be?” 

“Passed away in 2005. Plane crash.” He pulled up a newspaper article. “Not even a week later, Peter Benjamin Parker, aged four years old, went missing after his last living relatives, May and Ben Parker passed in a car crash.”

“Shit.” 

“This can be a good thing,” Bruce said.

“How the hell can any of this be good, Bruce? Nothing about this screams ‘good.’”

“It’s a good thing because now we know how to help him.” He closed the holo display. “I had my suspicions, but this just confirms them.”

“What?”

“His age. Specifically, his mental age. Intellectually,” he pointed to his head with his pen, “he is beyond advanced. However, his interpersonal communication and his basic reading and writing skill have been stunted. Most likely, to the age he was taken.”

“Right,” Tony said, snapping his fingers. “They clearly didn’t encourage conversational skills and literacy. He has no difficulties with scholarly vocabulary and verbal commands, so they must’ve not bothered teaching him how to read.”

“Exactly.”

“So, what do we do with a supersoldier with the mental age of a toddler and more chemicals than plasma in his blood?”

“I don’t know. But we’re gonna have to figure it out.”


	7. Chapter 7

Peter recovered from its ailments in fifty-three hours. “Resting” was very effective. Its previous owners had never enforced “rest.” It was not part of their rules.

Their policies were strict but efficient. 

If the DV was functional, then it would complete its training. When the DV trained, it had the potential of being rewarded. 

These owners had many rules that the DV did not understand.

It earned its food in many different ways. Ways that it struggled to comprehend. 

Maintaining good hygiene resulted in food. Answering questions resulted in food. Going to “check-ups” resulted in food. 

These tasks did not equate to the rigorous tasks that it had been taught food was worth. Its new owners had a different scale, and it would have to recalibrate its training to adapt.

Its new owners also gave it tasks that it didn’t quite understand the advantages of. 

They introduced it to a small woman named Kayla. Her physical attributes were unimpressive and the DV deduced that she would not be a worthy opponent in most combat with an unenhanced individual, let alone a DV.

Kayla wore very bright clothes patterned with flowers. She always wore tall socks that went to her knees and shiny shoes that were as colorful as the rest of her outfit.

She had a very bright voice. It was light but strong. Cheerful but patient. The DV liked her voice.

When it went to see Kayla, they started their sessions with five minutes of deep breathing. Then, they relaxed every part of their body, muscle by muscle for five minutes. The twenty minutes after that varied.

Sometimes they talked while Peter blew bubbles or played with tubs of sand or squished “PlayDoh” between its hands. The DV didn’t know why but it calmed it to have something to squeeze. 

Sometimes they did stretches unlike any of the pre-physical training stretches that the DV had done with its previous owners. They were slow; it was a lot more about breathing and a lot less about preparing its muscles for combat.

Sometimes she would read Peter stories or they would color pictures while they listened to soft music (not “classical” per Tony’s adamant instructions) or sounds that Kayla described to be “nature” sounds. Peter had not been in nature for long. In fact, the DV had only been in nature during the short journey to its new owners’ flying machine. But it liked the nature sounds. They were far from the mechanical whir of inspection rooms or the harsh boom of guns or the crack of bones beneath its hands.

It liked nature sounds. 

The DV didn’t always understand Kayla’s questions. The answers seemed irrelevant. But, it answered the questions pertaining to its mental well-being and adjustment to its new surroundings.

It didn’t understand her questions, but it knew it would earn a good meal if it answered her questions.

The afternoon after Peter’s first session with Kayla, Bruce came to its room, a large bag in hand.

“Good morning, Peter. How are you feeling today?”

“Optimal physical health,” it replied.

“That’s great!” Bruce said. 

Peter eyed the bag curiously.

Its owners brought lots of different things in bags. These bags, more often than not, were opaque, leaving its rampant imagination to conjure the endless possibilities. 

“I thought we could try something new,” Bruce said.

The DV pursed its lips to hold back the question burning at the forefront of its mind.

“What’s your question?” Bruce asked.

“New training regiment?” the DV blurted out.

“Uh… well… yes, actually. In a way.”

Peter relaxed. It had become too idle in its new containment. The lack of structure was agonizing, and it longed for the reliable routine.

“Natasha mentioned that we want to introduce choice making, right?”

“Affirmative.”

“Do you know what that means?” Bruce asked.

The DV hesitated. “Negative.”

“It’s when you’re given several options, whether it be tangible objects or actions to be taken, and you express which you would prefer.”

“What is…” It clamped its mouth shut.

“It’s alright. Go ahead. You can ask any questions you have during this conversation. You don’t have to wait for my permission.”

“What is the purpose? The DV’s input is irrelevant. Owners are irreproachable.”

“Well,” Bruce said with calculated calmness, “we want you to be able to make choices for yourself without our input. Not immediately, but eventually.”

“Why?”

“Because, unlike your previous owners, we aren’t… we are…” He huffed a heavy sigh. “We want you to be able to express your thoughts.”

“Open dialogue,” the DV said, remembering its conversation with Natasha.

“Right. Because, even though it didn’t matter before, your input and your comfort  _ do  _ matter. They  _ are _ relevant. And we are not irreproachable. We are flawed, and we can be wrong, and if something we do makes you uncomfortable or upsets you, then you have to verbalize that.”

Peter took in the new information, trying to make sense of the reasoning but falling short.  _ It would understand. It had to. _

“So, today, I wanted to start a new activity with you. Something to begin your choice… training.”

Peter perked up. 

“I’ve brought ten vegetables, some you’ve had before, and some I assume you haven’t. I want you to taste them and lay them out from most exemplary to most inadequate.”

“What are the categories I must judge?”

“Taste, texture, and the way it makes you feel.”

“How it makes me… feel?” the DV repeated, perplexed.

“You know how bubbles make you feel? And your audiobooks?”

“Affirmative,” it said with a nod, unsure of where he was going.

“Well, that’s very different than how, say, the shower makes you feel.”

Peter tensed.  _ Shower?  _

“That’s just an example. I’m not going to make you go into the shower.”

_ Verbal confirmation. _

“But, you can tell that you like the first two and don’t like the last? They give you different feelings. Everything gives you different feelings. Choice starts with being able to differentiate how things make you feel and recognizing your likes and dislikes.” He set out ten containers in a line, popping open all the tops. “So, start from one end and go down, and rank them from most exemplary,” he pointed to right, “and most inadequate,” and to the left. 

The DV tentatively picked up the plastic container. It smelled the fluffy, green food, recoiling at the odd smell. 

“That’s broccoli,” Bruce said.

‘Broccoli,’ it mouthed to itself. It took a small bite and scrunched its face in disgust, placing it on the far left.

It repeated the process for the rest of the foods — “vegetables,” Bruce explained — giving its running commentary. 

At the bottom were bell peppers. Their taste was overwhelming and harsh and made the DV’s head throb as it gagged. Mushrooms were a close second to bell peppers, the texture feeling too similar to its old protein. Tomatoes made its nose crinkle and broccoli was mushy and too fragrant. However, after the list quickly jumped from unacceptable to adequate.

Carrots were both inoffensive and slightly startling from its aggressive crunch. However, the mild sweetness made it worth it. It had had green beans before and they were a true neutral. Potatoes were just above green beans, only because of its tasteless neutrality and the DV’s familiarity.

The top three made Peter most excited. Peas were absolutely fantastic, and it could scoop them up and fill its palm and feel them all burst in its mouth. Cucumber was crunchy yet soft, making it easy to chew. It was refreshing and unlike the boiled, mush that it was used to. And, at the top of the list was corn. 

Corn was unsurpassably culinary excellence. Like peas, it burst in its mouth, but it was slightly sweet, but unlike bell peppers, it was nuanced and subtle. It was fresh but it also made the DV feel at ease.  _ And  _ the bright yellow made it smile.

Bruce was extremely pleased by the DV’s ranking, and said that its performance was exemplary and that it earned lunch.

The lunch included more corn, and that made it very happy.

This exercise became a part of the DV’s routine.

It started with one-sitting rankings.

Peter was introduced to different proteins. Chicken was the optimum protein. It was simple, with a mild taste that didn’t overwhelm its taste buds. Steak was at the bottom because its char reminded the DV of its old protein and it was too tough and difficult to chew. 

Then it was colors. Peter understood the concept of colors, though it didn’t understand their significance. It was given cards with colors, some bright, some dull, some “pastel,” and it put them into piles: most exemplary, adequate, unexceptionable, and most inadequate.

It discovered that it preferred bright colors, especially reds and blues, because they were the furthest from the monochrome blinding whites, dingy greys, and grimy blacks that it was so accustomed to.

Toothpaste was eye-opening when it discovered it had a physical aversion to mint and cinnamon. 

Then, these one-sitting rankings morphed into tasks that lasted days of experimentation.

Peter played all the puzzle games on its tablet and found that at the bottom of the list was Tetris (too stressful), followed by 2048 (simple pattern but frustrating), Candy Crush (truly wonderful and enticing), Bubble Shooter (challenging but also exercised its mental faculties), and at the top, Flow (the most satisfying and kept its mind the most engaged).

Its simultaneously favorite and least favorite test was the bubble bath soaps. Some it couldn’t even stand to get into the bath, the repugnant aroma just inside the bottle too much for the DV. Jasmine, eucalyptus, and rosemary were quickly at the bottom while vanilla coffee and vanilla lavender were at the top.

Then, there were what Bruce explained to be “long-term” rankings. These included things like the audiobooks that it listened to or the movies and shows it watched on its tablet.

It did not understand “fiction.” It was pointless and confused the DV. It knew nothing about the world, and could not decipher what was real and what were lies concocted for the stories they displayed.

Peter felt immense embarrassment when it had asked if children were really invited to attend Hogwarts when they were eleven years old, and realized it did not want to feel that embarrassment again. The DV stuck to the nonfiction.

Doing so, it found a newfound love for baking shows.

Unlike cooking shows, with their stiff white jackets and tense sound effects, the people on baking shows wore bright outfits and created masterpieces of sugar. Towering cakes with hyper-realistic recreations. Cookies with flavors combinations that Peter couldn’t even imagine. Intricate candies, molded like stained glass figurines. (It had seen stained glass in one of the dreadful fictional movies it had sat through.)

Peter especially loved the  _ Kids Baking Championship _ because the chefs weren’t adults. They were children, like it was. The show gave it a glimpse of the good that people like it — children like it — could do. The lives that they could have. The beauty that they could create instead of abominations of pain and destruction.

It also found a love in nature documentaries. Nature was astounding. The vibrancy and variation of the different biomes seemed unreal, almost unfathomable to truly exist out in the world that Peter knew nothing about. The animals made its jaw drop, completely stupefied at the sight of animals taller than anything it had ever seen, or poofier than any of its sweaters, or with the abilities to breathe underwater or fly in the air. It was stunning.

Peter was sitting on its bed, toes wiggling as it watched a documentary on bears, when it heard a knock on the door.

“Peter?” Clint said through the door. 

There was another scent beside him. One unlike the pizza and burnt coffee. It smelled of old dirt and fresh, dewy grass.

“I’ve brought someone to see you.”

This “someone” breathed very heavily, almost panting.  _ Who is it? _

“May I come in?” Clint asked.

“Affirmative,” Peter said, body wrung tight, ready for potential combat.

When the door opened, Peter felt the air get knocked out of his body.

The “someone” wasn’t just any someone. It was a dog.  _ A dog! _

It had seen dogs in one of its documentaries but he had never dreamt that he would get to meet one, especially not this soon.

This dog was unlike the dogs in the documentary. Its left eye was shut, the other scanning the room as it wagged its tail excitedly and sniffed the air. It looked soft, not in the way its sweaters were, fluffy yet silky. Its tail, feathered with fur that swished when it swung in the air, thumped against Clint’s leg, its body wiggling with the rapid movement.

“His name’s Lucky,” Clint said.

“He’s… beautiful,” Peter gaped.

“Would you like to pet ‘im?” 

“Pet?” Peter questioned, head tilting.

“Here. Lemme show you.” Clint knelt down to the dog, and ran his hand gently down his face and body. 

Lucky leaned into the touch, eye shutting closed as he smiled.

“You gotta be gentle, though,” Clint warned.

“I will be the most gentle,” Peter declared. The boy cautiously tiptoed to the dog, sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor beside him. “Hello,” he whispered.

The dog licked a wet stripe on Peter’s cheek. He yelped in surprise, but burst into a fit of giggles.

With heavy reluctance, Peter put his hand onto the dog’s back. He gasped softly, pulling it down the dog’s torso, taking in the feeling of the fuzzy, slightly greasy fur beneath its fingers.

“He likes you,” Clint said.

“I like him,” Peter replied, putting all of his focus to not harm the dog.

“You can give him soft scratches too. He likes that. Like when you wash your hair,” Clint said.

Peter began to massage Lucky, the dog leaning his whole body weight onto Peter, collapsing in his lap.

Peter let out a startled laugh and gave his stomach the soft circular motions he knew he loved in the bath.

Lucky sunk deeper into his lap, blissed out and content.

A warm tear slid down Peter’s cheek, dropping onto the dog’s nose. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey, it’s alright. Are you alright?”

“Currently fu—” the DV stopped. “Unknown feeling is overwhelming. Chest is constricted. Possible malfunction.”

“I think you’re happy, bud. Really happy.”

“I…” Peter trailed off. “I am happy?” Peter looked down at the dog who stared back at him, slobbery tongue streaming spit onto his pants. “I am happy.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Can you pass me that yellow piece?” 

“Hm.”

“Thanks.”

“Mhm.”

Natasha and Peter sat on his floor putting together a sunflower field. Puzzle time was one of the rare times where Peter put down all of his programmed guards, completely engrossed in his audiobook and putting the picture together.

Natasha wasn’t sure how he put puzzles together so quickly. Eidetic memory? Super pattern recognition? Both? Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. The puzzles were never really for her, though it was her and Peter’s “thing.”

Every Avenger was trying to figure out their “thing” with Peter.  _ “Creating routines is important,” _ Bruce had said.  _ “Give him something positive that he can associate with you.” _

So, Natasha was puzzles. They did puzzles. 

Peter was scanning the pile for sky pieces when Natasha noticed it.

His fingers, puzzle pieces adhered to his fingertips, twitched, sometimes enough to make the pieces fly off. The twitching progressed, morphing into a full jolt in his wrists and then to a quick arm spasm.

“Hey, are you alright?” Natasha asked softly.

“Currently—” His eyebrows drew tightly knit. “DV is malfunctioning. Source: Unclear.”

“You know, you’ve been cooped up in here for a month. I think we should take a field trip.”

“Field trip?” Peter repeated curiously.

“Would you like to move around a bit? Get some physical activity in?”

He perked up. “Training?”

“Doesn’t have to be training for anything. Can just be getting some exercise.”

‘Exercise,’ he mouthed.

“C’mon. Get changed into something you can move in. We can get you some shoes on the way.”

Peter, in a fresh pair of lavender joggers and tie-dye t-shirt, followed Natasha through the tower, already settling from their brief walk.

As they entered the gym, Peter’s eyes went wide. With wonder or trepidation, Natasha wasn’t sure.

“Physical training is commenced here?” Peter asked.

“Indeed it is,” Natasha replied. “What’s your usual regime?”

“DV begins with stretches, then laps, floor work, weight lifting, and finishes with combat training.”

“Let’s stretch together. I’d love to see your technique,” Natasha said.

Peter nodded silently and sat on the floor.

Natasha tried not to gape at the boy, but by the way he was bending, one would think he was a gymnast. No. A contortionist.

Full middle split, stomach flush with the ground. Butterfly with flat legs. Toe touches where he was grabbing far past his toes. 

To say the least, Natasha was impressed.

As they finished, Natasha peeled her body off of the floor. “The treadmill is over here. You can run on it for as long as you’d like at whatever speed you’d like, but you stay in one place.”

“The unenhanced DVs would use these for pre-injection examinations,” Peter said.

“So you’re familiar with them?” 

“Correct,” he said with a nod.

“I’ll leave you to it then. Just start running and gradually bring up the pace that you aim to keep, and when you want to stop, ease off the speed until you come to a stop.”

“Understood.”

He stepped on the treadmill (the one for the super soldiers, obviously) and started a brisk jog. He picked up the speed, leaning into the sprint as he quickly surpassed 50mph, rising to 100mph, and finally settling on an astounding 200mph.

Natasha struggled to tear her gaze away from the boy, extremely intrigued by the full extent of his abilities.

He stayed on the treadmill for exactly twenty minutes, muscle memory ingrained into his subconscious. 

Just like she had instructed, he slowed his pace with unsettling precision, his breath barely hindered by the sixty miles he had just run.

For the next thirty minutes, he alternated between crunches, push-ups, planks, and burpees, working at an aggressive and intense pace. His technique was impeccable. His brow was furrowed with determination, yet his shoulders were relaxed with a comfortable familiarity. His eyes were shut, at ease, breathing steady. 

Then, like clockwork, he stopped at the minute and scanned the gym, wiping his damp forehead with his sleeve.

“Here,” Natasha said, pulling herself off of the elliptical machine she had been working. “Weights are over here.”

She led him to the pile. “Do you understand what the numbers mean?”

“I understand the relativity of numerical values.” He began to pick up the weights. “The larger numbers equate to heavier weights.”

“That’s right,” Natasha confirmed.

He continued to sift through the weights, picking up hundred pound dumbbells like they were jugs of milk. “What is the maximum weight that these bars can withstand?” 

“I think a thousand, but we haven’t put it at its max. I think Steve has only done eight hundred,” Natasha said.

“I will trial its extremity,” Peter stated, and began to slide the weights on.

“Just, be careful,” Natasha said warily.

“I will use the utmost caution,” he responded.

Natasha’s jaw may have clicked when she saw him start benching.

After his ten minutes of weights, he finished with an hour of extensive solo combat. It was an intriguing mix of Krav Maga, Dornálaíocht and Speachóireacht. He was lost in the movement, choreography that he had likely been doing for years, mastered from the sharp jabs and the swinging legs.

Finally growing fatigued, at the hour mark, he stopped abruptly, falling to the ground on his knees.

Natasha rushed to his side, a tall bottle of electrolyte water in hand. “Drink up. Gotta stay hydrated.”

He took the water gratefully, sipping a deliberately slow pace, despite the soak that sweat his clothes and the silent pants escaping his mouth. “Thank you,” he said between sips.

“Of course. Gotta take care of your body when you’re exerting it like this,” she said. “I didn’t want to interrupt you since it seemed you had a strict schedule, but in the future, I want you to make sure you drink some water between reps. It can be very detrimental to your health if you don’t stay hydrated.”

“Hydration is essential for prime functionality?” Peter questioned.

“Exactly.”

He paused, tongue poking out as he thought. 

“What’s on your mind?” 

“You are very different from my previous owners. You are very different from any owner I’ve ever had.”

“Can I tell you something? It might not make much sense, but it’s the truth.”

He hesitated, biting his lip. “Affirmative.”

“We aren’t your owners.”

He froze, eyes going wide. “Who… are my owners?”

“See, that’s the thing. You don’t have owners anymore.”

“Then… who… what…” His brows scrunched as he struggled to piece the words together. “Who _ are _ you?”

“We’re people who care about you and who want to see you succeed. We are here to care for you and to ensure that you’re comfortable and at peak functionality.”

“But… why?”

“Because the life you had before? With your old owners? They… they hurt you a lot. And we want to see you heal.”

Peter stared at his fiddling hands on his lap.

“Have I ever told you about what I was like when I was your age?” She knew she hadn’t, but Peter’s participation in conversation was important.

“Negative,” he said softly.

“When I was a little girl, I was in a program called the Red Room. Me and tens of other little girls, young just like you had once been, were trained to fight. We learned acrobatics to keep us flexible and agile, ballet to keep us limber and indefatigable, hand to hand combat where we’d fight each other, sometimes to the death, and perfect sharpshooting, practicing on live targets. It was a place with no mercy. It was a place made to cultivate only the strongest willed soldiers.”

Peter stared at her in fascination.

“I had once believed that I was fighting for good. That is what they had told me. That I was fighting for The Greater Good.”

“The Greater Good,” Peter repeated. “You were trained for The Greater Good too?”

“It was not the same Greater Good as you. It was a different Greater Good. The pinnacle of human excellence. We were called the Black Widows. Spies with skills unsurpassable to the average man. Masters at deception, ruthless killers, unwavered by the red in our ledgers and the trails of blood that followed close behind us. This Greater Good, I believed, was a peaceful world. A world free from those tainted by weakness and defiant disobedience. A perfect world where we would prevail once the war was over.”

“Was the war won?” Peter asked.

She smiled sadly. “There was no war. The only war was the one that we forged. We were scythes deceived by the promise of triumph. The Greater Good was a facade, masking the true intentions of a lifetime of pain. A childhood of pain preparing myself for a lifetime of pain to follow.”

Peter clenched his jaw, wringing his hands silently.

“But, like you, I was given an opportunity.”

He looked up. “And what was this opportunity?”

“Redemption.” She leaned in. “For you see, I was given the chance to cease my lifetime of pain. Not only my own, but the pain that I was reigning. I was given the chance to help others. To protect them and to ensure that they would no longer be in pain. I was given the chance to stop the pain from spreading.

“But it wasn’t simple. I wasn’t able to help people right away. First I had to learn how to help myself.” She took a shaky breath. “My life was dependent on the orders and approval of others. My life’s mission was to succeed. To please the higher ups. I was a weapon in their calvary. I believed I was nothing. It wasn’t until I met Clint did I learn that I could be so much more.

“There are many things they don’t teach you when you are raised to combat an invisible foe. When they spend your life emphasizing the evils of the world, they don’t tell you of the many goods. They don’t teach you about the purity of friendship and humanity. They don’t let you know that there  _ can _ be anything more than what they are shaping you to become.

“But there is. There is so much more.  _ You _ are so much more. And you may not be able to see it yet, but that is why we care. That is why we are here. Because you deserve to be more. To know more. You deserve to have a life outside of the life that was molded for you to live.”

Peter swallowed heavily, squeezing his palms tight. “I once had a life. It comes in bits and pieces. Flashes of memory. And I know that I… that there was once a life before my owners. It took a long time for them to force that memory out of me. To force my allegiance. They... hurt me a lot in the beginning. To ensure my compliance. But I was so young. I did not understand the… I did not understand. But they made me understand. It’s all I know how. 

“There are facts of life. The facts of my life. I am… was… am a DV. Dependent Variables are artificial perfection. DVs are loyal to their owners. Their owners are irreproachable. DVs must train to combat The Reckoning for The Greater Good. Any insubordination or rebellion is punished. Any misunderstanding is punished. Anything less than exemplary is unacceptable.

“My existence is meaningless without the satisfaction of my owners. A DV is meant to serve its owners and The Greater Good, but now you tell me that it was fictitious,” he chuckled humorlessly. “You tell me that my life’s purpose was mere delusion? And now I must… must accept that my suffering was the cause of those enamoured by the fallacy concocted by their twisted minds?

“All I know is of The Reckoning, and my place in its defeat. All I know is my role as a Dependent Variable and the rules set forth by my owners. I have adapted to your new rules despite their absurdity and convolution, and now you tell me that you are not my owner and claim that my owners, my  _ real  _ owners, are delusional maniacs forcing me and the other 67 DVs that have crafted an intricate ruse, for what? What would be their purpose?”

She didn’t respond.

“That is right. You do not have an answer. Because I do not know your intentions. I do not understand your intentions. I do not understand your rules. But, I understand my owners. I understand their rules. I understand the  _ real _ truth. The facts of my life. Because if these facts are not true,” his voice cracked, breath catching in his throat, “ _ if _ these facts are not true, then I…” he stopped, deflating, “am truly nothing.”

“Hey,” Natasha said firmly. “ _ Hey. _ You are not nothing.”

Peter shook his head, huffing in frustration.

“No. Listen. You are  _ not nothing. _ You will  _ never _ be nothing. You have worth, and you will always have worth. Nothing you do or don’t do will eliminate your worth. Your worth? Your existence? It does not equate to the approval of your owners. Or of anyone else. Your worth is indestructible and is not dependent on anyone but yourself.”

“I do not know how to have worth,” he whispered. “All I’ve known is being theirs. How do I become mine?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Natasha said. “I did. You will too. And we’ll be with you every step of the way because like I said, we care about you. We want to see you succeed. We want you to be able to heal.” She placed a hand on his arm. He leaned into the touch. “We want you to be happy. And we want you to want to be happy. We want you to be able to learn how to be your own person without them, and one day, without us.”

“Choice making,” Peter stated quietly.

“Yes, like the choice making.”

“I don’t know if I can,” he admitted.

“You can. I believe you can. You have to believe you can too.”

“What if The Reckoning does arrive, and I am not prepared?”

“Did they ever tell you what The Reckoning was?”

He opened his mouth, about to retort what he believed to be the obvious answer, but stopped. “The Reckoning is inevitable. It is the detriment to all humanity only to be conquested by artificial perfection.”

“But what _ is _ The Reckoning? Is it an event? A person? Several events or people?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“You don’t know because they didn’t tell you. Because it’s not going to happen.”

His eyes darted frantically. “The Reckoning is not coming?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s not.”

Peter clenched his fists in his lap, biting at his lip that was turning a bright white at the pressure. “Was physical training adequate?”

Natasha, dejected by his regression but respecting his boundaries, pulled her hand away from his arm that she had been rubbing circles on with her thumb. “Physical training was exemplary.”

He nodded, still staring at the floor. 

“You can go get freshened up,” she said, pulling herself off the floor, the sweat soaking her yoga pants cold. “I’ll bring up your dinner when you’re done.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course.” She sighed through gritted teeth. “You earned it.”

Peter visibly relaxed. 

“Need me to show you the way back to your room?”

He paused. “I have memorized the route.”

“Be safe,” she said.

“I will venture with the utmost caution.” 

As he stiffly exited the gym, Natasha watched him go down the hall, making sure he made it to the elevator. He caught sight of her as he turned around and tilted his head as he locked eyes with her.

She gave him a small wave. “If you finish the puzzle, leave the sun for me, alright?”

Peter gave a weak smile and a curt nod. “The sun will be saved just for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thesaurus was my best friend in this chapter


	9. Chapter 9

It had been three weeks and six days since the DV’s last injection, and his body was not adjusting well to the withdrawals.

Bruce and Tony had sat him down to prepare him for withdrawals. They explained that the injections were not supposed to be in his body and were never meant to. They said that his body could potentially be dependent on the injections to operate normally and that it might be a painful or uncomfortable period of “detoxing” while his body learns how to function without them.

The DV could not imagine “detoxing” to be any worse than the pain that he had already felt. He knew of pain: excruciating, seering, and dull. He could overcome these withdrawals.

Peter was tired.

He knew of being tired, though it was more of malnutrition and overworked exhaustion. This was a different kind of tired. 

He found his mind filled with a rumbling hum, thoughts blocked by a thick layer of water smoke ( _ fog,  _ he had learned it was called). He was overcome with a lethargy only rivaled by a full day’s physical training or a feverish night of malfunctioning after a faulty injection. He felt heavy as if his limbs were restrained with every little move they made.

Because of his drowsy fatigue, he found himself lying in bed more often than not, bones feeling brittle beneath the invisible weight crushing down on them. 

Most of his not-owners had to leave on business to fight more ‘ _ goddamned worm monsters, seriously, more worm monsters?’  _ as Clint described them. 

That left him spending the weekend with Bucky, lying in his bed as they watched baking shows.

“She shouldn’t have put the sugar in so late. Everyone knows that the mixture will be too airy if you add the sugar after you’ve whipped it to stiff peaks.” Peter crossed his arms over his chest, huffing exasperatedly.

Bucky snorted. “Not  _ everyone _ knows that.”

“Well  _ they _ should! They’re on the baking show. They should know the baking rules.”

“And you know all the baking rules?” he questioned.

“The rules become evident through the great misfortunes and reckless errors exemplified on the baking shows.”

“Would you ever want to bake something yourself?”

Peter’s head snapped to face the long-haired man. “What?”

“Well, I was just thinkin’, it’d be a nice surprise for the team if we baked somethin’ for them. It’d be extra special if you helped make them.”

Peter’s eyes went wide with wonder. “I can be like the people on the baking shows?”

“Well, it won’t be as high stakes, but you can test some of those baking rules for yourself,  _ and  _ you’d get a sweet treat.”

“And gifting these confectionaries,” Peter said slowly, “it would please the… the team?”

“I’d think so. Nothing better after a long mission than a homemade chocolate chip cookie. You wanna surprise them?”

Peter ducked his head and grinned bashfully at the ground. “I would like to make cookies for the team.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’ve got a fully stocked pantry on my floor and a big bag of chocolate chunks.”

Peter’s feet mindlessly tapped on the stool at Bucky’s granite island. He watched curiously and silently as Bucky pulled the ingredients from the various cupboards and shelves, memorizing the places each item inhabited. 

“Now, my Ma used to make her cookies with shortening ‘cause that was all the rage back when I was your age, but I’m thinkin’ you’ll probably wanna try the real thing and that means,” he dropped the golden bricks onto the table, “lots and lots of butter. The real stuff. The good stuff.”

“High amounts of butter produces a rich and creamy delicacy.”

“You’re right,” Bucky said, pointing a spoon to Peter. “Now that we’ve got more money than we could ever have imagined, we figured we could splurge a little on food. Don’t feel right splurging on anythin’ else, but what ya eat as much as me and Steve, you realize that you’d wanna be eatin’ good.”

“I require substantial nutriment. My owners synthesized protein that could satiate my enhanced metabolism.”

Bucky nodded. “I get that. My handlers synthesized an intravenous nutrition concoction that could handle my hunger without me actually having to eat.”

“Handlers?” Peter asked, head cocked to the side.

“They were to me how your owners were to you,” Bucky replied.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“Don’t be. It’s just a part of my history now. Makes me who I am now.”

“Our pasts have molded us, but we forge our futures,” Peter stated.

“I think you’re right about that.”

Peter nodded. 

“Have you been sufficiently nourished? With the meals you’ve been given?” Bucky asked.

“Negative,” he responded simply. 

Bucky frowned.

Peter put his arms out, palms up on the table, a reflex that he knew would not be returned by his new… by the team.

“We’ll make sure your meals are more substantial.”

“Thank you.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, Bucky rummaging through the utensil drawer for the measuring cups. 

“Steve always just throws these into here when he does the dishes. I swear, it’s like he don’t even got half a second to keep ‘em all together.” He pumped his metal hand in the air. “Aha! There you are!” He pulled out the small metal cup. 

“So, you’ve got four options. One, I measure everything and you stir, then I put them on the cookie sheet. Two, you measure everything and you stir and I put them on the cookie sheet. Three, you do everything with my guidance. Four, you observe while I make them.”

“I choose option three,” he replied, the answer requiring no contemplation. He wanted to bake these cookies himself. 

Bucky, eyebrows raised only slightly, gave a casual nod. “Mr. Independent, then.” He went to hand a paper to Peter, but pulled it back. “I’m gonna have to read the directions to you. That okay with you?”

“DVs are adept at following verbal orders.”

“Well, don’t think of it as an order. It’s directions. Instructions to complete a task.”

Peter furrowed his brows. ‘Directions. Instructions,’ he mouthed to himself.

“First step to every recipe is preheating the oven,” Bucky said. “C’mere.”

Peter hopped off his stool and shuffled to the oven. “So, see this button here? You press ‘bake’ and then type in the temperature they need to go in for. These go in at 375.” His fingers ghosted the buttons.

Peter followed suit, pressing gently and jolting at the beeps.

“And then, you press this button here to start it.” 

The oven rumbled and groaned as it sprung to life. 

“Okay, now to start with the dry ingredients.” Bucky led Peter to the counter. “Let’s start with the flour. That’s this.” He patted the bag, the paper crinkling under his fingertips. “When you measure, you have to level off the top so you get the most precise measurement.”

Peter nodded. “My owners would do so with the powders in my injections before they mixed them with the bases.”

The plates in Bucky’s arm adjusted as he clenched his fist beside him. “Want me to show you first or do you got it?”

“I believe I understand how to proceed,” Peter said, chin tilted with confidence.

“So, first you have to use the biggest cup. Two of those.”

It took three attempts to fill the cup with a heaping overflow that he could level, but he quickly found a rhythm.

With a deep concentration, he measured all of the dry ingredients, the counter spotless beneath him.

“I stir now. Correct?” Peter asked.

“Correct,” Bucky confirmed.

Baking came naturally to Peter. It was a low energy way to keep his mind and body busy. The concentration was familiar in an unfamiliar way and the simple tasks were fulfilling. He would not admit it, but he craved the satisfaction of completing orders. The simple praise gave him a rush unlike anything else that made him feel whole.

He was fascinated by the mixer and its ability to take the different ingredients and bring them together to form a uniform mixture. Its mechanics astounded the DV and he wanted to pick it apart just to understand how it worked.

As they finished the dough, Bucky insisted that they add a preposterous amount of chocolate chunks that filled the soft brown batter with the dark shards.

“You’ve gotta taste the cookie dough. You’re not really s’pposed to, but everyone does it anyways.”

“Why must one not consume the cookie dough?” Peter asked warily.

“They say the raw eggs can make you get salmonella, but I think that’s all hooey.” He pulled off the paddle off of the mixer and scraped it clean, the white plastic still coated with a thin layer of dough. “Get a taste.”

“I have not earned food.”

“Well it’s not really a meal. This is just a taste, to make sure that the cookies’ll taste good. It’s part of the baking process.”

Peter grabbed it tentatively. He stared at it, sniffing the concoction up close, though he could clearly smell it from the bowl when he was mixing. He licked the edge and was overwhelmed by flavor.

Cookie dough was sweet. Almost sickeningly sweet. The chocolate chips adhered to the grooves of his teeth, embedding themselves that made the sickening sweet linger in ways he knew would overstay its welcome.

“Not a fan?” Bucky asked.

“The team  _ enjoys _ this?”

“A lot,” Bucky replied, plucking the paddle from Peter’s hand and sucking off a chunk of cookie dough with a low hum. 

“I do not understand the appeal,” Peter stated.

“That’s alright. Food’s one of those things you gotta work your way into. When you’re not used to flavor, it can all be pretty overwhelming.”

“Affirmative,” Peter said.

“Now, lemme show you how to roll the cookies.”

An hour and five dozen cookies later, Peter waited eagerly in the common area, cookies stacked in a ginormous tin.

His palms grew sweaty as he heard Clint’s familiar voice making its way up from the moving metal box.

“...which is exactly why we— holy shit, did someone make cookies?” 

“I have confected you cookies for post-mission reward,” Peter said, holding the tin out.

“That is very kind of you, Peter. Thank you very much,” Natasha said. She grabbed a cookie from the top. “Mm-mm- _ mm.  _ This is delicious! You did a fantastic job.”

Clint grabbed one after hers. “Oh wow. These are phenomenal. Best post-mission cookie  _ I’ve  _ ever had.”

Peter was practically buzzing after every person in the team gave him outstanding praise. 

Peter decided there and then that he liked baking. He liked it a lot.

Baking then became his and Bucky’s thing. 

There was something reliable about baking. Exact measurements. Specific textures. Simple tasks with clear completion. 

However, there was one unpredictable element that Peter did not like.

Baking times.

It was the next time that Peter had gone to Bucky and Steve’s floor to bake ‘brownies.’ 

He had completed every task with efficiency and the batter was immaculate. But, when he pulled them out of the oven, Bucky poked the center with a tiny wooden spear and put them back into the oven.

“What are you doing?” Peter demanded. “The brownies have completed their baking time.”

“They’re a little underbaked still. Just gotta pop them back in for a couple more minutes,” Bucky said.

“The recipe specified a thirty minute baking time,” Peter insisted.

“Well, sometimes different ovens cook different and y’gotta cook them a little longer.”

Peter’s hands trembled with discomfort. “How does one determine if the baking time is insufficient?”

“Well, there are these things called toothpicks,” he held up the tiny wooden spear. “You poke it in the center, and if it comes out clean, then it’s cooked. If it comes out covered in batter, it’s not.”

“And this… toothpick. You utilize it with all confectionaries?”

He shook his head. “Usually just cakes and brownies. There’s other tells with other baked goods. Like the cookies! You could tell they were done because they were golden brown on the edges.”

Peter’s jaw clenched with a click. “Will you teach me these indicators?”

“I’ll make sure to mention it from now on.”

Peter and Bucky baked three times a week together. Peter would venture to his floor at 12:56PM so that he would arrive at 1:00PM and they would bake a new recipe each time.

The third recipe the two tackled was cupcakes. 

Peter was very familiar with cupcakes. Many of his baking shows featured them.

The preparation to bake the vanilla cupcakes was straightforward. The newfound challenge was the decoration.

Peter had seen the intricate designs that the people on his baking shows did with icing. He knew that he was a novice in the art, but he strived to master this skill just like he had mastered the many skills acquired over the years.

He strived so ardently because it would be the first skill he acquired on his own accord. A skill not taught or forced by his owners.

Creating designs with icing was a balance of strength. Unlike combat with its brutal and unwavering dominance of power, it was a delicate strength: exerting just enough pressure on the icing bag to push the perfect amount out of the metal tip.

Icing was a deep concentration. With cupcakes it was working with textures and dimensions, collaborating with — not against — gravity to ensure that the details are secure. With sugar cookies it was a test of meticulous accuracy. Thin lines, miniscule patterns, delicate precision, all coming together to create art. To create beauty.

Peter liked creating beautiful things because they were far from the pain he was told he was destined to inflict.

And if these beautiful things were a sickening sweet, a sickening sweet he would never had gotten before that he was beginning to love more and more, then that was just more the reason to make them.

“I’ve got an icing challenge for you,” Bucky said to Peter as he entered the apartment.

“No challenge is inexecutable by me,” he said confidently. “What is this challenge?”

“Doughnuts,” Bucky said.

Peter grinned. “We best get started soon, then.”

“I’ve already prepared the dough, but I need your help while I fry them.”

Peter tilted his head. “What is the task?”

“The hot oil tends to set off the fire alarm, so I need you to fan the detector while they fry.”

“Where is this detector? And how must I fan?”

Bucky handed him a folder. “Just wave it back and forth so that the smoke doesn’t make it into the sensor.” He pointed to the small white circle on the ceiling. “That’s it right there.” He pulled out a chair. You can just stand on here and…”

“That is not necessary,” Peter said. He grabbed the folder and climbed the wall, settling in a comfortable criss-cross applesauce upside down on the ceiling next to the smoke detector. “You may begin.”

Bucky, gawking slightly, gave a small nod and turned to flip the hob on.

It had been a good few minutes when Peter’s arm began to get the beginnings of a dull ache from the fanning. It was then when Steve had entered, head down as he scrolled through his phone.

“Hey, Buck, is Peter not comin’ today?” 

“Hello, Steve,” Peter greeted, waving his free hand.

The blonde jumped, yelping as he nearly dropped his tablet. He stared at Peter with wide eyes.

“I am preventing the fire alarm from ‘setting off,’” he explained.

Steve nodded slowly. “Uh… huh.” He ran a hand over his face. “Alright then.” He strolled over to Bucky, placing a hand on the small of his back and giving him a peck on the lips. “I’m headin’ out. You need me to pick anything up for you?”

“We’re almost out of jam,” Bucky said softly, smiling as he rubbed his fingers over Steve’s.

“You want the fancy kind with the seeds?” Steve asked.

“You know me so well.” He kissed him again, lingering longer than before.

“I love you,” Steve murmured as he pulled away.

“Love you too,” Bucky replied. 

“You two enjoy your doughnuts,” Steve said.

“We will,” Bucky said. “Don’t expect any left over for you, though.”

“Jerk,” Steve said with a chuckle.

“Punk,” Bucky replied.

During his time on Bucky and Steve’s floor, Peter had studied their peculiar interactions. The way they were together was unlike the way they were with anyone else. They were especially unlike anyone had ever been with Peter. It was hushed and private, yet the moments were magnified as if they were spotlighted in their own story.

Peter wished to understand it one day. 

“Okay, I’m done. You can stop.” 

Peter’s arm froze, slumping as it finally got to rest.

“So, these’ve gotta cool for a bit, but then you’ll have free reign to do whatever you’d like,” Bucky said.

Peter did a red, white, and blue marble for Steve, though he did invite the rest of the team to grab some of their own.

“I’m gonna have a fun time devouring these,” Clint said, taking a plateful.

Peter’s body went rigid, his legs wobbly as he fought his instinct to let his knees buckle beneath him.

Clint tensed, studying Peter apologetically as he waited.

“I… I know now that there are many meanings,” Peter said through gritted teeth.

“I’m proud of you, kid,” Clint said.

“T-thank you.”

Another thing that Peter liked about baking was what he inferred to be a loophole to his training.

When he baked, he could eat what he made without any guilt because putting the work into making it meant that he earned it. Peter found himself making a lot of exceptions to his initial training. 

Bucky and Peter were sitting at the counter as the second batch of macarons baked (the first being absolutely perfect to Bucky’s jealousy dismay since it took him five tries to perfect them).

Peter wrung his hands as he stared intensely at his reflection in the counter.

“What do you want to ask?” Bucky asked.

“I…” Peter trailed off. “You have said before that your past is similar to mine. That you were once…” He stopped again. “How did you do it? How did you recover? How did you learn how to be your own?”

“My recovery was different to yours in ways that mean I can’t give you the answer to your own. Before I was the Winter Soldier, the fist of HYDRA—”

“Your handlers,” Peter interjected.

“Right. Before I was their weapon, I had a life. It was a longer life than you had before you became a DV. I was twenty-eight years old, twice the age you are now, and they spent a long time breaking me to become what they wanted.” He swallowed heavily. “But, you cannot erase a life easily, and when I was reintroduced to a piece of my life — Steve — I began to piece together the person I used to be.”

“I do not have a Steve,” Peter said quietly.

“I know you don’t. Which is why you have to learn how to become your own person. I had to learn how to be a person I had forgotten to be. But  _ you, _ ” he poked him lightly, “get to create the person you’d like to be.”

“I have been trying to learn how to be a person. How to make my own choices. But I do not understand this new way of life. It is so different from what I have known.”

“When you are a weapon for someone else’s mass destruction told that you are indispensable yet treated like you are worthless, it is near impossible to realize that the things that were once punished are now encouraged. So, at first, it’s easier to figure out how to treat these new facts as the new rules, new things that are expected of you that you’re expected to learn on your own.” 

“That is exactly how I feel,” Peter said.

“I may not be able to explain all the ways that things are different from being with them and being with us, but I’ll tell you a couple things I wish I’d known.

“Self advocacy is not just expected, it is very encouraged. You  _ will _ get rewards for self advocacy, whether it be through praise or receiving things that will aid you in your discomfort. Self advocacy can mean many things, and you’re already making so much progress. Giving us your status reports have helped us a lot in understanding how you’re doing physically. But, the biggest part of self advocacy, and the hardest, is learning how to say no.”

Peter’s face scrunched sourily.

“I know. I didn’t like it either. But saying no is the most important thing you need to learn how to be comfortable saying. And it comes with time and lots and lots of practice because we both know the kind of pain associated with saying no.”

Peter nodded.

“But we won’t hurt you. Can’t promise never, but never intentionally. We want you to feel safe. We want to know when you don’t want something.”

“I will try,” Peter said. “What else do you have to tell me?”

“Self-sufficiency is something that is expected but much harder to learn. While saying no goes against prior programming, choice-making has never been instilled in the first place and is a skill that must be learned. When others control your life, it’s instilled in you that others must make choices for you and those choices are superior. You’ve been taught that your wants are wrong, that wanting will be punished. But, now you are expected to want and to express your wants and to choose what you want, and it’s… it’s a lot. Sometimes it’s too much.

“Like food. I know it goes against every bone in your body to get your own food when you’re hungry instead of being given your food when you earn it, because food has always been earned, something used as reward and as punishment, but you can get it whenever you want now, and you can choose the foods that you eat, and you can choose whenever you want them, and that’s terrifying. It’s so terrifying to know that you have all this choice because you’ve never made any choices, but you have to take the big choices and widdle them down.

“Say you want to get somethin’ to eat, but y’don’t know what. First choose between a meal and snack. Say you aren’t that hungry, and you just need somethin’ to fill your stomach to tie you over ‘til supper. Then decide somethin’ dry, warm, or fresh. Which would you prefer?”

“Dry,” Peter replied.

“Alright. Crunchy or soft?”

“Crunchy.”

“Bland or flavorful?”

“Flavorful.” 

“Natural or artificial?” 

“Artificial.”

Bucky nodded. “Then you look at all the choices from there and keep whittling it down. Cheesy or salty. Big or small. It’s gonna be overwhelming at first, but you just gotta figure out the branches of choice and follow down the line until you find what you want.” He waved his hand to him. “Now, try to finish the branch and figure out what you want.”

“I want something… cheesy. And I want the kind that leaves residue on my fingers that I can lick off when I’m done. So that leaves me to choose between Cheetos or cheese balls. Cheese balls stick in my teeth and I can feel it for hours after. The  _ Simply _ white cheddar Cheetos don’t do that. So I… choose white cheddar Cheetos.”

“You want me to get that for you or do you want to choose your portion too?” Bucky asked.

“I think… I will choose my portion as well,” Peter said. With hesitance, he hopped off his stool and headed to the pantry, pulling out the nearly empty bag.

He grabbed a bowl, bright red and ceramic, and poured them out, one by one. He stuck his tongue out as he focused, stopping at the thirty-second piece. “It has reached its serving size.”

Bucky smiled. “Great job. I’m very proud of you for doing that. You did great.”

Peter’s heart fluttered in a warm wave. 

The oven beeped. 

“I’ll get it for you. You enjoy your Cheetos.”

Peter stared at the bowl, picking up the crunchy snack despite the heavy pit in his stomach draining his appetite.

_ You did not earn it. You did not earn it. You did not earn it. _

His hand quivered as he brought it to his mouth, everything in him screaming at him to stop.

As the cheesy treat touched his tongue, his body went rigid.

_ Punishment imminent. Punishment imminent. Punishment… is… is… is not coming. _

Peter’s eyes went wide.

_ Punishment is not coming. Punishment will not come. _

Peter finished the whole bowl.


	10. Chapter 10

It had been a week since Peter’s detox had finally dissipated and he was feeling at what they were calling “prime functionality,” and the Avengers had decided that it was time they took a new step towards his immersion into being a person in the real world.

So far, the team had been careful not to crowd Peter. They mostly designated specific times with Peter, Natasha with her puzzle time, Bucky with baking time, Steve with gym time, Tony with tech time, Clint with Lucky time, Bruce with check-ups and choice exercises, and Sam with everything else that fell between that.

It was safe and familiar, but Peter needed to expand his horizons.

So, team dinner.

Natasha made sure that Steve and Peter had an extra productive time at the gym so that he would feel comfortable eating such an extravagant meal. (It really wasn’t extravagant, but to Peter, any abundance of food, especially foods he liked, was a luxury.)

Bruce had discovered that Peter adored pasta. It wasn’t something he had ever had as a DV, yet was nostalgic to him in a way that not many things were. Bruce suspected that it was remnants of his life before his life as a DV.

The team prepared buttered noodles with chicken and a side of peas and corn, careful to not overseason. They utilized the seldom used dining table, setting it with bright yet inoffensive plates and cutlery, and laid out the humongous spread of food (they did now have three super-stomachs now). 

_‘Peter is taking his bath now. He should be done in ten minutes,’_ Steve texted the group chat.

“We’ve got ten minutes until showtime,” Tony announced.

“I don’t know why I’m so nervous. This shouldn’t be this nerve-wracking,” Clint said.

“Because we are trying extra hard to be as normal as possible,” Natasha replied. “Because we want it to be perfectly mundane for him.”

“Right,” Clint said. “And I thought giant worm monsters were gonna be the most stressful part of my week.”

“Get over them! We’re over it!” Bucky called from the kitchen.

“I’m not gonna get over it!” Clint exclaimed, stomping over to him.

“Sam, can you head down to Peter’s room to bring him up when he’s done?” Bruce asked.

“On it,” Sam replied.

“I got the kid hooked on carbonation, so I got him some ginger ale,” Tony said, pouring a can into a tilted cup. “Don’t give me that look, Rushman. Any good mixologist knows this trick.”

“Oh, is that what you are now?” Natasha retorted.

“...Yes.”

In Peter’s room, Sam admired the puzzle covering his floor.

Natasha had to tape together three foam boards to fit the whole outline.

“Eighteen thousand pieces,” Sam muttered with a whistle. 

He heard the water draining on the other side of the door.

“Hey, Peter. It’s Sam. Just letttin’ you know I’m here.”

“I know,” Peter replied. “I recognized your scent and footsteps.”

Sam, with no response, gave an awkward “uh huh.” He cleared his throat. “We’re gonna head somewhere new for dinner tonight. You’re gonna eat with all of us tonight. Thought it could be something we start doing more often.”

There was a pause. “Eat? Everyone together?”

“Yup,” Sam said. 

Another pause. 

Peter emerged from the bathroom wearing a bright teal fluffy sweater, neon yellow sweatpants, and cheetah print fuzzy socks. “Is what I wear appropriate for communal dining?”

“Totally,” Sam confirmed. “And I heard that you worked very hard in the gym with Steve.”

“Exercise was exemplary,” Peter said. “I maintained optimal hydration.”

“That’s great!” Sam praised. “Well, I bet you’re pretty hungry, so we better get upstairs.”

As they waited on the elevator, Peter rocked on the balls of his feet, swaying to his own tune.

Sam wouldn’t acknowledge it out loud, he was relieved to see Peter showing such casual and mindless movement. When they had first found Peter, he fidgeted and twitched, but in clear anticipation for pain. Otherwise, he was still, unsettlingly so.

But now, he was shifting his weight back and forth, swinging his hands loosely by his sides.

He had made a lot of progress in little ways that not even he recognized.

.-~*~-.

As the doors opened, Peter’s jaw dropped as he sniffed the air, taking in the blend of delectable scents swirling in the air.

The team sat calculatedly casual at the table.

The team was behaving unlike the dinners Peter had once overheard from his room, ones with at least three conversations all competing against each other, loud and brash. Instead, the team was quietly listening to Bruce as he described his day in the labs, spouting scientific jargon that only Tony seemed to understand, the man cutting in politely to ask questions.

“Oh, hi, Peter!” Bruce greeted. “Come join us.”

Sam led Peter to the empty seat in the middle, taking the chair next to him.

“You hungry?” Clint asked.

“I  _ am _ hungry,” Peter stated, licking his lips as he eyed the spread.

“May I serve you some chicken?” Steve asked, pulling out the carving knife and fork.

Peter went rigid, eyes going wide. His gaze locked to the table, eyes squeezing shut as he put out his arms, trembling palms facing up.

_ What did he do wrong? Was this dinner just an elaborate ruse? A magnificent feast for the team as they witnessed his punishment? Whatdidhedo... _

Steve’s breath hitched. “No, no, I— I wouldn’t— I’m not—” He took a breath in. “You are  _ not _ getting punished.”

Peter’s eyes peaked open. “But…”

“This is to cut the chicken,” Steve explained. “I am not going to use this to hurt you.” He began to carve the chicken. “See?”

Peter sat up, eyes darting around at the team who intentionally was not honing any focus on him.

“I would like chicken, please,” he said softly.

“Comin’ right up.” 

Steve cut him a pile of thinly sliced breast and handed him back his plate. “Who’s next?”

“Peter, would you like some pasta or would you like to wait until you finish your chicken?” Natasha asked.

“I would like pasta, please,” he said.

“Let me know when it’s enough.” She put two spoonfuls of pasta when he told her it was enough.

“Can’t skimp out on the vegetables,” Tony said. “They’re good for your health or something.” 

“I would also like vegetables, please.”

Tony gave him a heaping ladle. 

Peter waited for the table to all get their food, hands folded neatly in his lap as he watched them pass the food around, and finally settle. He did not know where he had gotten this piece of training, but he knew that he must wait until all members of the dinner table had a full plate before he began to eat. 

“Dig in!” Clint announced.

Peter picked up chicken with fingers, nibbling at the whole piece.

Natasha raised his utensils and gave a look to the team, and began to over-exaggeratedly cut into her chicken and raised it to her mouth, chewing slowly.

As the rest of the team followed suit, Peter froze, examining the sight.

His mouth parted in realization. Peter diffidently gripped the fork, holding it on the inside of his palm. He stabbed the chicken whole and continued to nibble on the uncut piece of meat off of the fork.

When he moved to the vegetables, the stabbing method did not work. He huffed in frustration.

Sam nudged him gently, and scooped up his veggies with his spoon.

Peter nodded as understood, and switched to his spoon. He took a moment to study the way Sam held his spoon, and replicated the motion, smiling in success as he picked up the corn and peas.

“So, Peter,” Tony said. “What did you do today?”

“To better understand how to be a person, I’ve been listening to psychology books to get a new perspective of the human mind so it’ll make sense to me. I listened to a story called  _ Allegory of the Cave _ by a man named Plato. The story is about three men who are imprisoned in a cave, chained up and facing the cave wall. The only thing they can see is the wall illuminated by the fire behind them. During their waking hours, objects are moved in front of the fire to create shadows on the wall. The three prisoners’ only understanding of the world outside of their own existence are these shadows on the wall of which they believe to have their own sentience, or at least, their own existence outside of their own, when in reality, they are just a projection of their silhouette on the wall. One day, one of the prisoners breaks free and escapes the cave, and for the first time in his life, experiences the world outside of the cave. He experiences sunlight and color and three dimensions, and it brings him to the overwhelming conclusion that there was a bigger existence than his life that he had once experienced. When he returns to the cave, he tries to tell his fellow prisoners about the outside world, but they don’t believe him. There was something about this story that resonated with me, so I continued to research the meaning behind the story because I’ve learned that fictional stories often have different meanings than the literal interpretation. 

“Apparently it was a metaphor for higher education and knowledge. But I… I made my own interpretation. I think I resonated with this story, not because of my lack of higher education, but my place in the knowledge of existence. I have taken the story literally, as I do most so often. If you were to tell me when I had been living the life I had been living before about this world that you’ve shown me, that you’ve helped me build for myself, I would not have believed you. This life that I seem to be living now is so very fantastical and unbelievable, and I still struggle to understand my place in such euphoric pleasures, but I think… I think that like the prisoner who escaped, this is me entering what is the real world. And what I was living before wasn’t… the right way to be living.” 

A thick silence fell over the table.

Peter fidgeted in his seat, uncomfortable under the stares of the team. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Bruce said quietly. “We’re just… that’s a good thing, Peter. That you realize that.”

His lips parted as he nodded. “Oh.” He pushed the pasta around on his plate. “What about you, Tony? What did  _ you _ do today?”

Tony smiled a weak smile. “Well…”

Peter let Tony’s long-winded ramble wash over him as he plucked the macaroni onto his fork and took a bite.

_ “Pasghetti!” Peter squealed, dancing in his seat. _

_ “Remember, it’s polite to wait for everyone to get their food, sweetheart,” his father said. _

_ Peter clasped his fingers under the table, his thumb rubbing impatient circles on his knuckles. _

_ “I made your favorite,” his mother said, her eyes crinkling as she smiled, “since it is a special occasion.” _

_ “Thank you, Mommy,” Peter said, voice squeaky and light. _

_ “So, tell us all about your day. How was your first day of preschool?” his father asked, scooping a spoonful of pasta on his plate. _

_ “It was uber duber super spectaculathasaurus!” Peter declared.  _

_ “Oh, that good, huh?” he replied, a fond grin on his lips.  _

_ “Mrs. Kirkland had us draw first day of school pictures! I drew us on a beach with a dog who can fly.” _

_ “Oooh. I bet it’s wonderful,” Mommy said. _

_ “Mrs. Kirkland says that she put it in her port-fo-li-olio for us to get back at the end of the year, so you’re gonna have to see it,” Peter explained. _

_ “Gonna be a tough wait, but we’ll have to do it,” Daddy said. _

_ “I knew all the letters in the alphababet and Mrs. Kirkland gave me a shiny gold star to put on my folder! I can show you! It’s in my bagpack!” _

_ “After dinner,” Mommy instructed. _

_ Peter plopped back into his seat.  _

_ “Okay. Let’s eat!” Daddy said, setting the bowl down.  _

_ Peter took a heaping forkful of pasta and hummed in delight at the buttery goodness.  _

_ “Don’t you want cheese on that?” Mommy asked, holding up the plastic grater. _

_ “Cheese please!” Peter said, giving her a toothy grin as he handed her his plate. _

_ A tall mound of Parmesan topped the pasta. _

_ “Gotta stir it up,” she said. _

_ “Okey dokey!”  _

Peter snapped back to Tony’s ramble which was nearing its end.

“May I please have cheese for my noodles?” Peter asked. 

“What kind of cheese?” Bucky asked, scooting out his chair.

“Parmanjon,” Peter said.

“Parmesan?” Bucky repeated.

Peter paused, mouthing the word to himself, before he gave a quick nod.

“You liked Parmesan when we did our cheese choice exercise?” Bruce asked.

Peter shook his head. “You put… you put cheese on your pasta. Mommy would always give me extra cheese.”

The table went silent again. 

“You remember your… your mommy?” Natasha asked. 

“I…” he paused, eyebrows scrunching tight. “I  _ did. _ ” 

“Here’s that Parmesan,” Bucky said, setting the grater next to Peter’s plate.

“Want me to get that for you?” Sam asked.

“Yes please,” Peter replied.

“Tell me when you want me to stop,” Sam said. 

Peter counted for five seconds before saying a firm, “stop.” He took his fork and mixed it up. “Gotta stir it up,” he whispered.

Peter didn’t have the energy to talk any longer, but he listened as the team shared simple stories, smiling at the hijinx that they got up to. 

Peter didn’t remember much about Mommy and Daddy, about his family. But he did remember how they made him feel, and the team that sat at the table with him, laughing softly as Clint retold Lucky’s great sandwich robbery, made him feel like that again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know if you can tell but i absolutely ADORE the allegory of the cave and i have been DYING to find a way to put it into one of my stories.


	11. Chapter 11

As much as Peter loved baking, it was beginning to become monotonous. He wanted a challenge. He wanted variety.

After long consideration, he brought this up to Tony during tech time.

“You ever thought about cooking? Lots of variety there.”

“Cooking,” Peter repeated.

“Yeah. It’s like baking but it’s more savory stuff. Like the kinds of stuff we have for lunch and dinner.”

‘Savory,’ Peter mouthed to himself.

“I can show you one of my favorite recipes? It’s really easy, and it’s pretty fu— enjoyable. Well, it was enjoyable when I did it. But, I was also five. Huh.” He paused. “Well, I think it’s gonna be enjoyable. I hope it’s gonna be enjoyable.” He shook his head. “Whatdya say? Cookin’ with Tony?”

Peter took a moment to consider the pros and cons. “I would like to cook with you.”

“Let’s head up to mi casa then. That’s house. In Spanish. Yeah, maybe I’ll hold off on the Spanish. Let’s go.”

Tony’s home was very different from Steve and Bucky’s.

Where theirs was cozy and bright, his was pristine and sleek. Theirs: warm and worn. His: clean and crisp. 

His home lacked the little pieces of life that littered Steve and Bucky’s; there were no blankets strewn atop the couch or coffee stained mugs sitting on the counter. 

However, it didn’t feel impersonable.

Extravagant pieces of art adorned the walls, the colors bright and patterns intricate. Big floor to wall windows overlooking the city filling the room with sunlight. Colorful pillows and chairs, trinkets and knick knacks filling the many elegant shelves, candles and potted plants and an array of photos. There was more than what first met the eye, just like Tony.

“Your home is beautiful,” Peter said. He truly did mean it, though he didn’t understand why he felt so.

“Thanks,” he said with a grin. “Can’t take much credit for that, though. It’s mostly Pepper. She’s got an eye for interior design.” 

“Pepper?” Peter asked.

“My girlfriend. Uh, you know what girlfriends are, right?”

“Your life companion?” 

“I don’t know about life. Hopefully. Maybe. Who knows? I mean, I’d want to.” He paused, staring at the wall. “Relationship epiphanies later. Cooking now.”

“What are we cooking?” Peter asked.

“Well, when I was a kid and my Nonna would come visit us at the holidays, we’d always make her famous spaghetti and meatballs.” Tony slid around the kitchen with a comfortable grace. “So, that’s what we’re making. Nonna Carbonell’s famous spaghetti and meatballs. There were three secrets to her famous spaghetti and meatballs, and yes, I will be referring to it with its full title.” He slammed a large binder onto the counter. “First was the spaghetti.”

Tony pulled out the flour. “Homemade pasta. Now, back then, she didn’t believe in the aid of machines, but this is the twenty-first century, and we’ve got these fantastic attachments that you just add to your mixer, and bam! Pasta. Easy peasy.” He slid the flour and measuring cup to the boy. “Can you measure out two and a half cups of flour and put it in a pile on the counter?”

Peter nodded, though his brows were furrowed dubiously.

“The second secret was a little bit of sugar in the sauce. Cuts back the bitterness of the tomato. Oh! Already done with the flour? God, you’re fast. Don’t know how you do it.” He handed him four eggs. “So you gotta make a little hole in the middle with your hand, can you do that? Don’t go all the way down. Just enough to make a little divot. Yup! Exactly like that you’re a natural. Then, crack the eggs in the flour.”

“On the counter?” Peter questioned.

“I know. It’s weird. But trust me, it’ll all work out. Okay egg number one… two… god golly you can do that with one hand? That’s impressive. And eggs! Are done. Then you gotta mix it all together until it forms a dough and knead it.”

“Like bread?”

“Kinda like bread. It’s a different texture. It’s more like a pastry consistency. Maybe? I don’t know anything about pastries. Ignore me.” He rummaged through the pantry, piling ingredients in his arms. “You alright if I start on the sauce? It’s just gotta bubble and boil and all that jazz. Nothing too interesting. I’ll commentate the whole thing if you’d like. Let you learn how to make it if you ever want to on your own time.”

“Make the sauce. I will work on forming the pasta,” Peter said.

“Perfect!” Tony began to scoop the tinned tomatoes into the pot, eyeballing the spices and giving a full play-by-play for the boy at the counter. “How’s the dough comin’ along?”

“The dough is nearly fully formed,” Peter said.

“You’re just a dough master. My arms are jelly by the time I’m done.”

“My muscles are artificially enhanced by hundreds of chemical injections.”

Tony snapped his mouth shut. “You know what? I’m pretty fine with my jelly arms. Very much fine with my jelly arms. Love them.”

“The dough is now fully formed,” Peter announced.

“Great job bud. Looks great. Now we gotta put it through the spaghetti machine.” Tony set up the device. “So you just push it through one end, and it comes out the other end as spaghetti. Like this.” 

Peter’s jaw dropped as the noodles formed.

“Wanna try?”

“Yes!” Peter exclaimed excitedly. 

“Gotta be gentle. Just a little pressure. Don’t rush it.”

“I will be the most gentle,” Peter said with a firm nod. His smile was big and bright, eyes crinkled in delight as the spaghetti pushed out. His giggles were bubbly, erupting into laughter that he couldn’t contain. “I love the spaghetti machine.”

Tony grinned. “I can see that.”

Peter wiggled in his seat as he worked through all the dough until it was all gone.

“You did it perfectly! Amazing job.”

Peter beamed at Tony. “What is my next task?”

“We move onto the meatballs. The third secret to Nonna’s famous spaghetti and meatballs is little meatballs. A lot of people make jumbo meatballs, but then you don’t get the maximum meatball to pasta ratio. Little meatballs have a different cook time, and when you steam the little meatballs, they’re extra moist. Maybe it’s four secrets. Does the steaming count as a fourth secret? Maybe. I don’t know.”

“How must we make these meatballs?” Peter asked.

“Well, the mix is pretty simple. Meat, spices, breadcrumbs, and so much garlic it’ll drive away any vampires in a mile radius. Do you know vampires?” Peter blinked blankly. “That’s a no. They’re these fictional creatures that are like undead humans that drink blood. They’ve got an aversion for garlic.” He sighed. “You know, my jokes are significantly less funny when I’ve gotta explain them.”

“Your jokes are consistently unfunny,” Peter stated.

Tony stared at him. “You know what? That was a good burn. I needed to be brought down a couple pegs. It’s humbling.” He dumped the meat into a bowl. “I’ll handle the mixing because the enjoyable part is coming up next.”

“The spaghetti machine was not the enjoyable part?”

“Well, now I’m not so sure. You loved the spaghetti machine a lot.”

“I love the spaghetti machine,” Peter confirmed.

Tony massaged the mixture in the bowl. “So, when you make meatballs, you’ve gotta roll them into little balls.”

“I have done that with my cookies,” Peter said.

“Well, it’s like that! Except with… meat.”

“What makes the formation of meatballs so enjoyable?” Peter asked, perplexed.

“I think it’s just… the experience. Usually we’d listen to music, but I know you’re not the biggest fan of music—”

“I enjoy music,” Peter interrupted.

“You do?” 

“Affirmative. I listen to music when I exercise. It is a luxury I had not had before. A routine once characterized by deafening silence and angered screams is now a time filled with what Steve calls ‘infectious groove.’ Sometimes it is Steve’s music. Sometimes it is music that has been recommended by others. Sometimes it is music that I have chosen. I like to explore the different genres and artists since I have missed so much in my contained life.”

“Well, what sort of music do you like?”

“I like music with energetic drums and jubilant melodies. I particularly like synthetic instruments since they are the furthest from the music that they had…”

_Sweeping orchestras reaching their crescendo as the DV was injected with what felt like liquid fire, screaming in anguish as the chemicals ripped through its bloodstream._

“I like it,” Peter said. “Steve was not familiar with the type of music I like. He said he was in the ice when it came out.”

“Do you have a playlist I can throw on?” Tony asked.

“I have accumulated a playlist based around Young Sir’s preferences,” JARVIS said.

“Throw it on, J!” Tony said.

The opening chords of “Dancing Queen” blasted through the speakers.

Peter swayed in his seat, bouncing to the beat. 

“You know what?” Tony said. “Not what I expected, but definitely not against it.”

Peter liked rolling meatballs. It was slimy and squishy. It was a simple task. It was rewarding.

Peter liked rolling meatballs with Tony. Tony sang softly under his breath, a rough yet rich sound that differed from the smoothness of his speaking voice. Tony talked a lot and didn’t expect Peter to respond. 

When they finished rolling the meatballs and got them into the oven, Tony insisted that they have a “dance party.” 

Dance parties entailed jumping around and flailing one’s arms around while they listened to music. 

Peter liked dance parties with Tony. They made him happy.

Peter was happy. 

Cooking with the team became a new part of Peter’s routine. In the evening after his usual activities, he met up with a member of the team to cook new dishes. 

Bruce showed Peter intricate Brazilian dishes like Pao de Quijo, a cheese bread that made Peter salivate. They focused on flavor profiles and combinations that Peter was not familiar with and tested his palette. 

Natasha focused on Russian comfort dishes, heavy dishes with buttery puff pastry and jam-packed with fatty beef. These made Peter’s eyes droop blearily before he crashed in his bed for a long night’s rest. 

Sam taught Peter all about his New Orleans’ heritage. He showed him jambalayas that were so creamy and warm that it made Peter feel like he was floating. They also made dishes that Sam had to make a separate serving for Peter because he put spices in them that made Peter’s mouth tingle and burn. Sam had let him try a taste, and Peter had to chug a half gallon of milk to make the pain disappear. 

Steve and Bucky taught them “Great Depression” recipes. Their dishes made his stomach feel full, something that was difficult to achieve. 

Peter loved cooking with Clint the most. Something about the recipes that Clint showed him felt like a home. Meatloaves with mashed potatoes, chicken tenders and fruit salad, build-your-own tacos. Something about them sparked a nostalgia in Peter’s mind.

It was a Clint night tonight, and Peter was ecstatic. 

“We’re gonna have a bit of a barbecue,” Clint announced.

“Barbecue?”

Clint grinned. “Burgers!” 

Peter’s eyes lit up. “Burgers?” he repeated with awe. “Burgers are a once in a while food.”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “They are?”

“Mommy says that burgers aren’t healthy so you can only eat them once in a while. It’s like pasta or pizza.” His smile faltered. “Or… she said that.”

“Well, you finished a puzzle today, so I think it’s the perfect day to have a once in a while food,” Clint said softly.

“I’ve never made burgers before. Daddy would go out to his grill outside and he’d cook them while Mommy made the corn and french fries.”

“I’ve got corn and french fries if you’d like them.”

Peter nodded, smile falling as his lip quivered. “Yeah. I’d like that a lot.”

Clint took a cautious step to the boy. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“I miss them,” Peter whispered. “I miss Mommy and Daddy. When I was… I had to move in with my Uncle Ben and Aunt May when they went up to shamayim. I only lived with them a couple weeks before they went away too. My old owners, they told me that I would never see them again. They made sure I knew that. I think not having them,” he swallowed, “having nothing made it easier to become a DV because I had nothing to lose.”

A silent tear rolled down Peter’s cheek. “I just miss them. I can barely remember them but the more I remember, the more I miss them and the more I wish I… I wish they weren’t…” He wiped at his eyes. “They made me forget. There was nothing there that would ever make me remember. It was all so different being there. Being a DV. But now that I’m here, and I have been shown so much kindness and given so much care, I’m starting to remember what it’s like. What it’s like to be loved.” Peter took in a shuddering breath.

Clint kneeled down in front of the boy to get to his level. “You are very loved. We all care about you so much, and we all are a family, and I think we’d all agree that you are now part of our family.”

“I’d like to be part of your family.”

“You are,” Clint said, rubbing soothing circles on Peter’s back.

As his sniffles slowed, Peter pulled away. “Can we still make burgers?”

Clint smiled. “Of course we can. And I’ve gotta warn you, I’m a bit of a burger flipping master, so you’ve got a lot to learn.”

“I learn at an excelled speed due to my mental enhancements,” Peter stated. “I want to learn how to be a burger flipping master.”

Clint laughed. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

The next night, Peter was on Bucky and Steve’s floor. Bucky was at the labs for maintenance for his arm, so Peter was there alone with Steve for the first time.

The two were preparing what Steve called a “hearty navy bean soup.” 

It was a tomato based soup, something that Peter had quickly fallen in love with.

He had a complicated relationship with tomatoes. When he made his initial rankings of vegetables, he had considered tomatoes to be somewhat below adequate. That was until he had discovered cooked tomatoes.

Cooked tomatoes were a glorious delicacy, masterfully blended with spices and herbs that were fragrant and delicious. Tomato based soups were even more exemplary, thick and velvety and bursting with the flavor of a tomato without the appalling texture. 

The soup was bubbling in its pot while Peter sat at the counter. He snagged a fallen chunk of ham and popped it in his mouth.

He froze, body going rigid and eyes darting on high alert. 

_Punishment is not coming. Punishment will not come._

Pushing the perturbing thoughts away, he grabbed more chunks of ham off the cutting board and began to snack.

Steve glanced at Peter, making an effort to not address his actions. 

However, the lack of praise made Peter second guess himself, and he dropped the ham, tucking his hands in his lap.

“Hey, it’s okay. You can snack on whatever you want,” Steve said.

“It… I…” Peter squeezed his eyes shut, trying to piece the words together. “It is hard. To do things that I know will…” He clenched his jaw. “That I know _would_ have led to punishment. I am always waiting. I am always waiting to be punished again. You say that you will not punish me, but I cannot know. I cannot truly feel like punishment is never coming. I am trying to understand you. To understand why you do not want to use me and ensure my obedience, but I don’t… sometimes I feel like I do not deserve it and that I cannot become too comfortable in case one day you reveal that you will. If you were to decide that I did something that warrants punishment.”

Steve took a long pause. “I think it comes with time, learning trust, being reassured in your trust. Bucky has said before that even now, almost two years of rehabilitation, he doesn’t truly feel like the life he has won’t be ripped away from him to go back the way it used to be. Buck, he’s… he’s a strong guy. And he’s adjusting. He’s adjusted well to where he is now. But he’s still findin’ himself. He’s still figurin’ out how to trust that it won’t go away. It’s gonna take you time too.

“You know, my Ma had a saying she’d tell me when I was sick,” Steve chuckled sadly, “and that was a lot.” He took a seat next to Peter. “It was in Irish. No matter how long the day, the evening comes. She said it meant ‘no matter how bad things are, they will end.’” He smiled nostalgically. “Dá fhada an lá tagann an tráthnóna.”

Peter’s eyes went blank as he slammed his forehead into the granite counter.

“Holy! Are you okay?”

Peter pulled up, throwing his head even harder onto the granite with a sickening crack.

“Woah, woah, hey!” Steve jolted out of his seat, barely pulling Peter back before he could ram his head onto the granite a third time, his forehead gushing blood over the counter.

Steve dragged Peter away from the counter onto the floor, hugging him from behind to keep him from propelling himself forward more, keeping a palm on his forehead to stop the bleeding.

Peter thrashed against Steve’s hold. “DV must be terminated!” he screeched.

“JARVIS! Can you get me some backup here please! Tell them to bring the tranqs!”

“Already on it, Captain,” JARVIS replied.

“DV must be terminated,” Peter continued to mutter through gritted teeth. 

“Tell them to hurry! He’s stronger than he looks!” Steve exclaimed.

A flurry of footsteps approached from the elevator.

“What the hell happened?” Tony demanded.

“Tranq please!” Steve said.

Bruce rushed behind him and administered the shot in Peter’s arm.

The boy went limp as his body slumped in Steve’s hold.

Steve let out a sigh of relief, finally untensing his bruising muscles.

“Again,” Tony said. “What the hell happened?”

“I-I don’t know,” Steve said. “We were just cooking and talking and then he just started bashing his head against the counter saying that t-the DV needs to be terminated. I-I don’t know, I can’t—”

“Steve. Focus. What exactly happened?” Natasha said firmly.

“I was, we were, we were talking. We were talking about how he’s having trouble adjusting to being away and learning how to trust, and I was telling him about my Ma. About an old saying she used to say when I was sick.”

“What was it?” Natasha asked.

“Dá fhada an lá tagann an tráthnóna. It means—”

“What language is that?” Natasha interrupted. 

“Irish.”

“Didn’t his… owners speak that?” Tony asked.

Steve’s face paled. “Yes. They did.” His trembling hands clenched into fists. “You don’t think—”

“That he might have trigger words in Irish?” Natasha finished. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“Trigger words,” Tony repeated. 

“They might not be like James’, but they’ve definitely been implemented. If you had to ask me, I’d say that this was a kill switch.”

“Kill switch?” Steve asked with a choked gasp.

“A self-destruct if he were to ever turn to the wrong side, I’m guessing,” Natasha said.

“Oh God.” Steve’s hand covered his mouth in shock.

“We’ve gotta detain him until we can figure out how to safely deprogram him.” Natasha knelt down and picked up the boy.

“When he wakes up, do you think he’ll…” Steve trailed off.

“There’s no saying, but honestly? I don’t think it will be that easy.”

The waiting game was grueling.

They cuffed Peter down on a reinforced gurney. It was the last thing any of them wanted to do to the kid, but he was unstable and rabid at best.

Bruce and Sam sat at his bedside, another dose of sedatives ready.

Peter awoke suddenly, eyes snapping open and teeth baring a growl.

He jerked and writhed under the hold of the cuffs, the metal bending against his strength. “DV must be terminated!” he shouted.

Bruce hopped up to grab the syringe. “This should last until the morning.”

Peter suddenly stilled, his body going slack as his chest heaved.

Sam and Bruce stopped as they watched the boy cautiously.

Peter’s eyes darted around the room, breaths labored, and let out a shaky sob, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks.

Sam rushed to his side, unlocking his cuffs despite Bruce’s adamant protests. He wrapped his arms around the boy who went rigid from the touch.

“It’s okay. You’re alright. Everything’s gonna be alright. You’re safe,” Sam whispered.

Peter melted into his touch and weeped into his shoulder, wrapping his arms around Sam weakly, burying his face into his t-shirt.

Sam rubbed circles onto his circles. “I’ve got you. Everything’s gonna be fine. You’re safe.” 

Peter sobbed harder.

“You’re safe. I promise.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Torture and non-graphic rape scene

“My owners installed what they referred to as failsafes. It insured that my allegiance was guaranteed.”

The Avengers stood in Peter’s room. After yesterday’s scare and Peter collapsing in dehydration and exhaustion in Sam’s arms, they were all on edge by the new discovery.

“And what exactly were these failsafes?” Clint asked.

“The first was an instant obedience. If I were to ever lash out or defy my owners, this word forced me to comply. However, I was not one to disobey. It was mostly used for transportation from room to room to make sure that I would make no escape effort.” He swallowed thickly. “They would also use it during… during Fun Time so that I would not disturb them if I were not to be the one executing the act.”

Bruce excused himself from the room, Tony following quickly after him. 

“The second failsafe was self-termination. This was installed in case I were ever to go completely rogue or if an adversary were to use my powers against my owners, especially if they were to initiate my instant obedience.”

Natasha nodded. “But these failsafes have neutralizers.”

“Correct,” Peter said. “Remaining in such concentrated obedience for extended lengths of time caused major damage to my cognitive and physical capabilities, and I did not act at prime functionality. It interfered with my ability to execute tasks with full precision and accuracy.” He took a long breath. “The self-termination required a neutralizer in case it was triggered unintentionally. It had before and almost succeeded.”

“Do you know the failsafes?” Natasha asked.

“And is it safe for you to repeat them?” Clint added.

“A DV is incapable of triggering their own failsafe,” Peter said. “Each failsafe is installed in the mother tongue, but the neutralizer is installed in both mother tongue and English.”

“Can you tell us them?” Natasha asked.

“The failsafe for instant obedience is ‘chomhlíontach’ and the neutralizer is ‘release.’ The failsafe for self-termination is ‘tráthnóna’ and the neutralizer is ‘morning,’” Peter recited.

The air was thick with tension.

“You’re not gonna like it,” Natasha said, “but there’s only one way to deal with this, and it’s getting rid of the trigger words.”

“We can’t do that!” Steve hissed through gritted teeth. “You saw how much it hurt Bucky.”

“Well he’ll be in a lot more pain if he gets triggered again!” 

Sam turned to Peter. “Do you want to get rid of these failsafes?”

“Yes,” he stated with a certainty that was seldom for the boy.

The team went silent.

“It’s gonna hurt,” Bucky said. “It’s gonna be hard and long and it’s gonna hurt a lot. Are you sure?”

Peter twiddled his thumbs as he stared at his lap. “I have been hurting for a very long time. If more hurt makes that hurt go away, then I will gladly do it.”

“We’re doin’ this?” Sam asked.

Bucky looked to Peter, chin held high with determination but eyes soft with pleading. “We’re doin’ this.”

“So here’s how it’s going to work,” Natasha said.

Peter laid in the stiff bed, wrists and ankles not yet cuffed.

“We’re going to say the beginning of the words, and you have to fight against your programming. You cannot let yourself slip into instant obedience. I will not finish the word, and I will take pauses as long as it takes you to fight through. I will stop before the last syllable and start again. We will do this for as long as it takes. The final test will be when I say the full word. Do you understand?”

Peter nodded tentatively. “Understood.”

“If you need to stop for any reason, any reason at all whether it be discomfort or if you just want to stop and pick up another time, you say so. Do you understand?”

“Understood.”

“Okay,” Natasha said, shoulders losing tension, just for a moment. “Let’s start. Are you ready?”

“I am ready,” Peter confirmed.

“Chomh…”

Peter went rigid, arms twitching as he fought its instincts. He bit the sides of his mouth as he forced his neck back from bowing down. 

It was a long ten minutes later before she continued.

“Chomhlí…”

Peter trembled with petrification, preparing for punishment for his insubordination.

“Chomhlíon…”

_ Physical training had finally ceased and the DV fell to the ground. _

_ Its last injection was causing major malfunctions. It was weaker. It was distracted. It was sloppy. _

_ The DV knew its owners were aware of its current inferiority. _

_ It knew what was coming. _

_ Its owner approached. Heavy footsteps. That metallic slide of a knife being unsheathed.  _

_ The DV stood to attention rapidly, its legs wobbling beneath it as its vision malfunctioned. It leaned against the wall to steady its head-pounding vertigo. _

_ “Chomhlíontach,” the owner said. _

_ The DV’s knees buckled, slamming against the hard cement. Its arms shot out, palms up, head tilted to the ground while it stared at its owner’s shoes. _

_ Its owner tipped its head up, a cold, well-manicured finger under his chin.  _

_ She slapped the DV hard. The crack of the impact echoed in the room. _

_ “What the  _ fuck _ was that?!” she screamed. “Are you defected, you piece of shit? Or are you just lazy? Slacking off, hm? Is that it?” The DV could not respond. “ _ Answer me!”

_ “DV is currently malfunctioning.” _

_ “Yeah, no fucking shit you’re malfunctioning. I think we can all tell you’re malfunctioning!” _

_ The DV would wince if it were physically capable. _

_ “Don’t even think you earned your food today. You don’t deserve food after that goddamn catastrophe of a session.” _

_ “Understood.” _

_ “Did I say you could respond?” She laughed dryly. “Just for that, you’re really gonna get it.” She dragged her knife across its skin. _

_ The DV did not react. It could not. _

_ Eight lines of punishment for every hour of its owner’s time that the DV had wasted. Four more for insubordination.  _

Natasha repeated the broken phrase for grueling hours, Peter’s body taut, sweat dripping down his quivering limbs. 

“Chomhlíon… tach.”

Peter gasped, slumping back.

“Chomhlíontach. Chomhlíontach, chomhlíontach.”

Peter sighed in relief and shut his eyes.

“We’re gonna take a break, okay, Peter?” Sam said. “You need to eat.”

Peter nodded, mind still a thick fog. 

As he slowly chewed through a bowl of teriyaki chicken and fried rice, Bucky sat with him, wiping his burning skin with a cold, damp towel.

“How are you doin’?” Bucky asked.

“Currently…” Peter trailed off. “I am prepared to continue.”

“You don’t gotta do it all today,” Bucky said.

“I must,” Peter insisted. “I want them uninstalled immediately. Or… or as soon as possible.”

“I get the feeling.” Bucky pushed Peter’s hair back as he wiped his forehead. “You’re doing a fantastic job. You are so strong. I’m so proud of you.”

Peter’s heart fluttered at the praise. “Thank you.”

“Are you sure you want to—”

“Yes. We must proceed.”

“Alright,” Bucky said, holding his hands up. “It’s your choice.”

“Thank you.”

The second round was nerve-wracking only because it had the higher stakes. Though the team did have the neutralizer, the blind impulse to self-terminate — the utter loss of control that he had tirelessly built — made Peter’s blood chill.

“This is going to work just like it did last time,” Natasha said. “But we’re going to restrain you, just for your own safety in the event that this doesn’t work.”

“Understood,” Peter said.

“Remember, we can stop at any time.” 

“Understood.”

“Are you ready to start?”

“Affirmative.”

The cuffs were cold. They were tougher than the previous ones, durable and resilient. 

“Trá…”

Peter’s teeth clenched together hard, the pressure making his jaw ache. He kept his tongue away from his teeth; he was afraid that he might try to bite his own tongue off as a last resort attempt.

“Trá…” 

Peter’s nails dug into his palms, his nails not quite long enough to dig into the flesh. The fists shook violently, the cuffs digging into his skin as he attempted to break free.

“Trá…”

_ It was the day of the DV’s 164th injection. It knew because it had kept count. _

_ It hadn’t known how to count when it had arrived to its new owners. It did not remember not knowing as much as it didn’t remember learning. It just knew that it once did not know and then it did. _

_ When it first arrived, it was given twenty injections in the span of seven days. When it had survived these injections, its owners were shocked. _

_ It cried those first seven days. It cried, and it screamed until its throat was raw, and it sobbed silently when there were no tears left to shed and no sound from its screams. _

_ It soon learned its place. It learned that it was worthless. That that its only worth was serving its owners and if it were to be insubordinate, then it would be punished. Pain ensures compliance and obedience. _

_ It soon learned the rules. It soon learned the facts of its life. It soon forgot its life before its owners. It soon realized how it would never have its own life for its life belonged to The Greater Good. _

_ It was the day of the DV’s 164th injection.  _

_ Two owners were in its living quarters. _

_ It was Fun Time. _

_ The DV was numb, unable to let the tears spill from its eyes from the familiar pain that it was so accustomed to. The pain that never got easier. _

_ The owner behind him grunted as he spoke to the woman holding her hand over the DV’s mouth.  _

_ They spoke in the mother tongue, laughing as they casually conversed, the man tugging at the DV’s hair as his thrusts grew sloppy. _

_ He threw the DV to the floor when he finished, guffawing at the sight of his cheek pressed against the cold cement. _

_ “We’ll be back this evening…” he said in the mother tongue. _

_ Something clicked inside the DV’s mind, its brain surging into tunnel vision. The DV slammed its head against the ground, faster and faster until the pain was unbearable. _

_ “Shit! What’s the word?” he exclaimed, scrambling to pull the DV away from the floor. _

_ “Maidin!” she shouted. _

_ The DV collapsed, back hitting the floor, warm blood streaming down its face and pooling in its hair.  _

_ It was spared with an uncommon mercy as it was pulled into a deep unconsciousness, the pain floating away. _

“Trá…” Peter was exhausted. He couldn’t do this anymore. He just wanted it to stop. He wasn’t strong enough. He’ll never be strong enough.

“...thnó…”  _ No! _ He was. He was strong enough.

“Trá…” He was not their Dependent Variable. He was not their weapon. He was not theirs. He was his. 

“...thnón…” He was more. He was more than them. He was more than they ever thought he could be. More than anything they were making him become. He was… he was...

“...na.”

_ He was free. _

The team went still, eyeing him cautiously. Peter heaved unlabored breaths. 

“Tráthnóna,” Natasha repeated. “Tráthnóna, tráthnóna, tráthnóna.”

Peter did not react. He did not feel anything.  _ He didn’t feel anything! _

“How do you feel?” Natasha asked softly.

“Hungry,” Peter said between gasps of air.

Stiff laughter rang out in the room. 

“Let’s get you something to eat,” Sam said. “How’s a burger and milkshake sound?”

“Anything please,” Peter croaked. 

Burgers and milkshakes were exemplary. The burger had bacon and a sweet yet smoky sauce and the milkshake had oreos and protein powder in it. 

They had started to put protein powder in a lot of the drinks Peter drank. After being deprived of his synthetic protein and being unable to stomach a portion larger than what he had been accustomed to, he was quickly becoming malnourished. 

The burger and milkshake made Peter feel full, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Sam sat on Peter’s bed with him. He slowly nibbled on his burger as they watched Peter’s favorite dolphin documentary. 

“Sam?” Peter asked quietly as he finished his milkshake.

“Yes, Peter?” Sam replied.

“Can you do…” Peter stopped, face scrunching as he thought. “I… can you… you…”

“Take your time. There’s no rush,” Sam said.

“Last night,” Peter started. “You… when I had… when I had broken free of self-termination, you… you wrapped your arms around me. Can you… can you do that again? Please?”

“That’s called a hug. You’d like me to hug you?” Sam asked.

“Yes please,” Peter whispered.

“Do you still want to watch the movie?”

“Yes please,” Peter repeated.

“C’mere.” Sam scooched to the headboard, reclining against the pillows. He guided Peter’s body over to him, resting his head on his chest as he wrapped a hand around his small torso.

Peter felt his body go limp at the contact, his head pressing heavy right next to Sam’s heart, the steady thumping making his muscles unwind even looser. 

“May I touch your hair?” Sam asked softly.

“Affirmative,” Peter replied.

Sam began to massage Peter’s scalp, running his fingers through his curly locks, rubbing circles gently yet firmly. Peter leaned into the touch, a sigh escaping his lips.

“I like this a lot,” Peter stated. “It is most exemplary.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sam murmured.

Peter blinked blearily, eyes fluttering shut as he pulled himself closer to Sam, wrapping his arm around his back.

His fatigue finally set in. 

He was relieved. He was ecstatic. He was free.

Peter drifted to sleep, the soft ba-bump of Sam’s heart lulling him farther and farther into his dreams.

He fell asleep feeling safe.


	13. Chapter 13

“Knock knock!” 

Peter furrowed his brows as he stared at the door.

“May I come in?” Tony called from the other side.

“Affirmative?” Peter replied.

“Hey, kid. Lovin’ the color combo. Definitely getting some Velma Dinkley vibes here. That’s a good thing. Don’t worry.”

Peter looked down at his orange fuzzy sweater and red sweatpants in bewilderment. 

“So, I’ve got some goodies with me today. I thought we could try something new.” He pulled out a thin rectangle of cardboard with a gold rim. “I was thinking we could take a crack at reading.”

“I can read,” Peter said, cocking his head slightly.

“You… huh? You can? But… Bruce assessed your reading level.”

“Ensuing the discovery of my ineptitude, I have learned how to read,” Peter stated.

“You just learned how to read? Can I… uh… how exactly?”

“The tablet says the words out loud, and I look at the words on the page while it reads to me. Through this process, I have inferred patterns in the written and oral English language. It has been aiding me in further understanding human conversation.” 

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Do you comprehend the things you read?”

Peter nodded. “Through this immersion into the English language, I have also gained a heightened vocabulary purely through exposure.”

“Is that the only way you’ve been trying to learn conversation skills?”

“Correct.”

Tony sat down on the edge of Peter’s bed. “And you’ve been reading… what? Research papers and ancient philosophy?”

“Correct,” Peter said with another nod.

“Kid, there’s a lot more about talking than that. Sure, knowing words and grammar is a big step and I’m so super proud of you for that. I am. I’m very, very proud of you.” 

A bright grin spread over his face.

“But you’re not gonna understand human conversation through that kind of stuff.” 

Peter’s smile fell. “Surely I will. I have been reading copious resources on the evolution of language and linguistics.”

“Speech is… imperfect. It’s got quirks and unspoken rules, and it’s constantly changing and evolving. I mean, take for how we all talk. We don’t speak with perfect grammar all the time, y’know? We’ve got filler words and too many contractions and slang, some outdated and some new, and it all can’t just be information regurgitated from an article. You watch those baking shows, right?”

Peter nodded.

“Well, have you noticed the way they talk? That it’s not all formal? That it’s like how the team talks?”

“I did not realize that that was the standard,” Peter stated, eyebrows knit tight.

“Well, it is. So keep watching those, and start trying to focus on the way they talk and the way they interact with each other.”

“I will examine these new details in my future viewings.”

“Have you watched any of those fictional movies or shows on your tablet?”

Peter shook his head. “I deemed them irrelevant due to their lack of efficacy.”

“And what exactly is the result you’re lookin’ for?” Tony asked.

“Real information,” Peter stated with a confident certainty.

“Well, fiction’s got a lot of real information in it too. Even though the people in them aren’t real, the things they do are based around real things. The point of movies isn’t to take them by face value, but to interpret the story it’s conveying and the commentary it makes on society, human relationships and emotions, or history. You can learn a lot about things that real people do by watching those. If you’re confused about if something is real, ask one of us. But, that might help you better understand conversational English.”

The two sat in silence as Peter pondered the new information.

“Okay,” he finally said. “I will watch the fiction.”

Peter categorized his exploration into fiction with a few categories of education. 

1\. Normal human behavior. This included common physical mannerisms, body language, and appropriate casual touch.

2\. Normal human speech. This included American vernacular, speech imperfections, acceptable everyday lexicon, and “slang.”

3\. Normal human interactions. This included expected reactions and responses to certain actions, phrases, or situations.

And finally:

4\. Normal human life. What does a “normal” fourteen year old boy do? What  _ should _ a “normal” fourteen year old do? How does one be a “normal” fourteen year old boy?

P eter dove into his research on How To Be A Normal Fourteen Year Old Boy. 

With the team, he began to make his way through a list of fictional movies. He found himself asking for clarification throughout these movies very often.

First was  _ High School Musical _ with Natasha _. _

“Do people really go to ‘schools?’”

“Yes.”

“Do they really have ‘theatre’ classes where they perform fictional pieces in costumes?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

“Do people really perform impromptu choreographed vocal performances to express their inner turmoil?”

“No.”

“Are cafeterias real?”

“Yes.” 

“They really hold all of those students?”

“Yes.”

“And all of those students go to school?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

Next was  _ Mean Girls  _ with Bruce.

“Is Halloween real?”

“Yup. It’s October 31. Kids dress up in costumes and they ‘trick or treat’ where they go door to door and receive candy. Other common themes of Halloween are the supernatural and pumpkin carving.”

“Hm,” Peter nodded silently. “What is a slut?”

“Do people really throw parties?”

“Lots of people do. There’s a lot of different kinds of parties, not just the ones that she’s throwing. They can be extravagant and rowdy or they can be close-knit and calm. You usually have parties to celebrate things. Birthdays, holidays, accomplishments, the start or end of something. Or some people just throw them when they want to get together with their friends.”

“What if you don’t have friends? Can you still have a party?” 

“You can have a party with anyone. You can have it with your family too.”

“Can we have a party?” 

Bruce smiled softly. “Sure we can. I’ll talk to everyone else about it, okay? We’ll do something all together.”

“I’d like that.”

“Is prom real?”

“Yeah, prom is real.”

“And the prom queen and king? Are they deemed royalty of the school?”

“No, it’s more of a title to express their position in the social hierarchy. It represents popularity and favoritism.”

Peter also started watching fictional films on his own time and would bombard the team with his questions when they would see each other next.

“Do the leaves on trees really turn different colors?” Peter asked Sam while they cooked gumbo.

“Yes! They do. Some turn orange and red and brown and fall off in autumn and are bare for the winter. Some stay green all year long. Some trees grow flowers in the spring and summer.”

Peter’s lips parted as he grinned. “I would like to see the trees some day.”

“You’ll see them. I’ll make sure you do.”

Peter grinned even wider. 

“Can people really travel through time?” Peter asked Bucky as he entered his floor.

“No, they can’t. If they could, it would give people too much power and not enough accountability for their actions.”

Peter nodded, staring at the wall as he took in the response. “What would you do if you could time travel?”

“I’d probably go and see my family when they were still alive. What about you?”

“There is no better time than the time I’m living in now. Even though I wish I could see my parents again, I think that I wouldn’t be able to let them go if I could see them again.”

“We can’t live in the past,” Bucky said. “We gotta live in the now.”

Peter grinned. “We’ve gotta live in the now.”

“Is Christmas real?” Peter asked Tony when he came in for tech time.

Tony’s eyes went wide. “Yeah. You celebrate it on December 25 and you exchange gifts at the Christmas tree and have a big dinner with your family.”

“Is Santa real?”

“Oh geez, this is not the conversation I wanted to be having today. Uh… what is the right answer to this question?” 

Peter stared at him with wide eyes.

“No. Santa isn’t real.”

Peter shrugged. “I figured not. I’m starting to understand that most magic is fictional and not a real enhancement.”

Tony snapped his fingers. “On top of that, flying reindeer, gift making elves, and talking snowmen.” 

“There’s a lot of lies in the culture of Christmas,” Peter said with a frown.

Tony snorted. “You can say that.”

Peter had been testing these new mannerisms and modes of speech with the team and they were responding with enthusiastic praise. 

It was unfamiliar; the movements felt forced and unnatural, and he had to make a mental effort to consistently utilize the new vocabulary. However, he knew that skills developed and mastered through repetition, so he found himself talking and moving much more than he had before.

It was baking time with Bucky when Peter had noticed something was off.

Usually during baking time, the two aimed to yield a sensible amount of baked goods. The team had made it clear that they couldn’t eat so many sweets because their bodies didn’t metabolize the sugar and carbs the way Peter’s did, and they needed to stay in shape.

So, understanding that they wanted to remain at their prime functionality (and silently commiserating their inferior unenhanced metabolisms), Peter made sure to not bake large quantities that could not be consumed in a reasonable time.

That’s why, when Bucky had told him that they were decorating a three layer cake, Peter was caught off guard.

“A three layer cake?” Peter questioned.

“I’ve prepared you three six-inch vanilla cakes. You can decorate them however you want. You know where everything is, and if you want anything specific, I can get it for you.”

“What is all of this?” Peter asked with an uncomfortable chuckle.

“You are going to decorate this cake however you want. I know how much you love icing, so I figured it’d be a nice brain break.”

“I  _ do _ love icing,” Peter said, hopping off his stool to help Bucky pull the cakes out. “Are they already simple syruped?”

“Not yet. Figured you’d wanna do it.”

“Well, you were right. No offense, Bucky, but you drench them. The cakes can’t handle it,” Peter said with a strained smirk.

Bucky held his hands up in surrender. “Alright. You’re the cake prodigy. Show me how it’s done.”

Peter grinned. “Gladly.” Peter began to lay out the cakes on the table, unwrapping them gently. “You leveled them.”

“Saved you some time.”

“Thanks,” Peter said. “Even with all the hacks, it’s still a pain.”

“No problem.” Bucky took a seat across from Peter, a can of Coca Cola in his flesh hand. “What’re ya thinkin’? What’s the plan?” 

“Well, vanilla on vanilla is elegant and has more opportunities for color, but you and I both know how the taste of the dye always lingers. So, I have to stand by my instinct. Chocolate on vanilla is the superior combination. Nothing will ever beat the experience of fudgy chocolate frosting encompassing a fluffy, moist vanilla cake.”

“So...?”

“Double fudge frosting with chocolate drip and raspberry buttercream wild roses,” Peter said, already shuffling around the pantry grabbing ingredients and sticking them to various parts of his torso to carry them back to the counter.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” Bucky said.

“Well, get used to it, because I’m not gonna stop doing it,” Peter said a cheeky grin despite the twinge of unease making his palms sweat.

He knew that talking back was not considered insubordination, but was seen as “playful banter” and “joking around.” However, that didn’t settle the uneasy apprehension that he felt. Introducing casual defiance in all of his interactions made his skin crawl and heart palpitate, but it was necessary. He had to learn. He had to.

Peter plucked the ingredients off, and set them down. “Would you mind starting the chocolate ganache while I make the buttercream?” 

“Not at all,” Bucky replied, heading to the stove. “Dark chocolate or milk?”

“Milk.”

Bucky hummed in response.

The two fell into a familiar rhythm, Peter getting sucked into a deep concentration as he started piping while Bucky reclined and read a sci-fi novel.

“Done!” Peter announced. “Tada!” He held his hands out, posing outrageously around the cake, showing it off.

“Brava. Gorgeous. Stunning. Breathtaking.”

Peter shoved his metal arm as Bucky snickered.

“Hey, how about we go leave this on the common floor so everyone can grab a slice?” Bucky suggested.

“Shouldn’t we wrap it first?” Peter asked.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Bucky said with a tense shrug.

“If we leave it uncovered, millions of miniscule dust, hair, and skin particles will adhere to the surface of the buttercream,” Peter stated with a frown. “Plus, it’ll dry out.”

“Peter, trust me. It’ll be fine.”

Peter’s fingernails dug into his palm as he contemplated correcting the man again because he was clearly incorrect or giving into the safety of compliance.

He chose the ladder.

Peter’s fingers drummed on his thigh during the elevator ride up, toes wiggling impatiently in his fuzzy socks. 

His eyes shot up at the door, head tilting in confusion.

He smelled the whole team on the same floor. And food? And plastic?

As the doors opened, Peter’s jaw dropped.

On the walls of the were shiny streamers and a rainbow of balloons. The dining table had a wide spread of snacks and appetizers and the sink was filled with cans of sodas. Hanging above the table was a banner with glitter block letters reading “Two Months!”

“Is this a party?” He blinked. “For me?”

“It’s been two months since we first met, and since we didn’t celebrate the first one, we figured the second is second best,” Sam said.

“You’ve made so much progress in the last two months, and that’s something to be celebrated,” Steve said. 

Peter sniffled softly, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Clint said. 

“Thank you. Thank you so much. I love it. I…” He chuckled wetly. “I love you guys so much. Can I,” he wiped his eyes again. “Can I hug you all?”

Sam was the first to surge forward, pulling Peter into his arms.

“Group hug!” Clint yelled. “That means you too, Stark. I don’t care that you’re allergic to compassion, you’re gettin’ in on this.”

Peter beamed, giggling as he felt everyone’s bodies crowd around him. He nuzzled his head into the crook of Sam’s neck, sighing with content.

The pressure around him slowly receded, and Peter pulled away.

Tony clapped. “So, for your first party, we’ve got some traditional party foods, party games, and…” He pulled out a colorful cone, “a special party hat just for you.”

“I get my own party hat?” Peter asked, eyes sparkling in awe.

“Just for you,” Tony replied. “May I touch your head so I can put it on?”

“Yes!” Peter exclaimed in excitement. 

The hat felt a little strange at first, the string an odd sensation on his chin and the weight making him feel slightly top heavy, but it was everything he wanted and more.

“That cake looks beautiful,” Bruce said.

The cake now sat on the table, unharmed by their previous hug session.

“Thank you,” Peter said softly. “It’s vanilla cake with chocolate frosting.”

“I can’t wait to try it.” Bruce smiled.

“So, Peter. Since this is your party, would you like to eat first or play games?”

“I would like to play games,” Peter said, shaking his head slightly as he remembered to use his colloquial dialect. “What kinda games were you planning?”

“We can play musical chairs, limbo, or charades,” Natasha said. 

“Oh! And we’ve got stuff for a photobooth,” Clint added.

Peter’s face lit up. “Photobooth?”

“You want to do that?” Natasha asked.

“There aren’t any photos of me. At least, not ones since… and the ones since weren’t exactly photos I want to hold onto. I want to make some new memories, y’know? I want to have something to remember these happy moments forever.” Peter shook his head. “Sorry, that was dumb. Just ignore me.”

“No!” Steve interjected. “We’d love to take photos with you.”

“In fact,” Tony said. “How’d you like to have your own camera? Something you could have to take your own photos whenever you want?”

Peter’s eyes went wide, glazing over once again. “Really?”

“Of course,” Tony said.

Peter’s eyes drifted around the room, taking in the sight. The team, all looking at him with a genuine, kind care. The team, unafraid to shower Peter in casual affection and encouragement. The team, making Peter feel like he truly mattered. That he meant something. That he could mean something. 

“I don’t know how to thank you. How to thank you all.”

“How about you help me put on that gaudy giraffe and take a photo with me in that rainbow feather boa?” Tony suggested.

Peter smiled. “I think I can do that.”


	14. Chapter 14

“I want to go Trick-or-Treating.”

The team froze, forks and spoons suspended in the air as they all stared at Peter.

“Is that so?” Bruce asked.

“Uh-huh,” Peter said, feigning nonchalance. 

“Any particular reason why?” Natasha asked, matching his insouciance. 

“It’s been a lot of the movies I’ve watched, and I was just thinking about how I didn’t really get the chance to have a childhood, and even though I can’t go back and get that childhood, the least I could do is get the chance to do some of the things I’ve missed before I’m too old to.” Peter looked up at them with big doe eyes.

Clint, Steve and Sam shot conflicted gazes to the others who mastered blank poker faces.

“Are you sure that’s the best idea?” Bucky asked. “You haven’t left the tower before, and Halloween is a lot of interpersonal communication and interaction, which you haven’t had with anyone but us and Kayla.”

“I need to learn how to,” Peter said. “And it’s not like I’ll have any opportunity to spill something I’m not supposed to. It’s just knock, ‘trick or treat,’ get candy, leave, repeat.”

“There’s gonna be a lot of other kids out. Big crowds. Big, loud, rowdy, touchy, overwhelming crowds,” Tony said.

“I’ll have my sound dampeners.”

“People use Halloween as an excuse to scare people. It can be potentially triggering and may initiate some of your DV tendencies. You may hurt innocent civilians by accident in what you’d believe to be self defense.”

Peter hesitated. “Well, I’m sure you wouldn’t let me leave the tower without supervision. Every one of you is more than capable of protection and combat. And, I promise, if I even feel slightly threatened, I’ll tell one of you before I act. Even the jumpscares, I’ll hold back. I’ve had to restrain myself from much worse than someone jumping out at me from the shadows.”

The team winced.

“And,” Peter continued. “You know me. I trust you, and I trust that you won’t hesitate to step in if I were to be getting out of hand, whether it be me being physically aggressive or me spiraling.”

There was a thick silence, the team shifting differing glances in a wordless discussion.

Peter was still learning the intricacies of choice, but the things that he had directly asked for were few and far between. Despite the risks, the mountain of what-ifs and possible disaster scenarios, they all shared a collective nod.

“Okay,” Tony finally said. “You can go Trick-or-Treating.”

Peter grinned.

“ _But,_ there is going to be some ground rules,” Natasha continued.

Peter nodded, placing his hands in his lap to hide his excited fidgeting.

“We still don’t know the extent of your immune system,” Bruce said. “You haven’t been exposed to the allergens and germs in the outside air, especially in such a heavily filtered space like the tower. So, you’re going to N95 face mask to protect yourself from potential pollutants and pathogens.”

“Of course,” Peter said.

“You cannot wander,” Bucky said. “I know you’re going to be excited about getting out and exploring, but you have to stay by whoever is with you the whole time.”

“I will remain by their side the whole night.”

“You cannot use your powers,” Steve said. “No casual sticking, not even a hint towards your enhancements. It isn’t safe for anyone to know the things that you can do.”

“No powers. Just a normal night as a normal kid.”

“Are we really doin’ this?” Sam asked.

“We’re doing this,” Tony replied.

“So, what do you want to go as?” Clint asked Peter.

“A dolphin,” he said immediately.

“A dolphin?” Clint repeated.

“I love dolphins,” Peter said. “I watched a documentary about dolphins in captivity being released into the oceans where they could live their lives in newfound freedom, and I… it was like me.”

“Are you sure a dolphin is…”

Peter looked up to him with a heart-breaking pout.

“Dolphin is perfect!” Clint blurted out. “You’ll be the best dolphin of the night!” 

Peter’s face lit up. “I won’t let you down. I’ll be the best behaved kid out there.”

Halloween came too slow for Peter’s jittery impatience. He was still not used to wanting things, not used to having things to be excited about.

The morning of, Natasha came in for puzzle time with a pumpkin in hand.

“What’s that?” Peter asked.

“Thought we could carve a jack-o-lantern together,” she said.

“A real jack-o-lantern?” Peter questioned with awe.

“A real jack-o-lantern.” She sat it down on the carpet. “We’ve already gutted and cleaned the inside. The smell is a bit appalling, especially for sensitive senses, and the texture is even worse. Bucky and Steve had to leave the kitchen because the scent was so sickening.”

Peter chortled. “I can’t imagine anything being too much for Steve and Bucky.”

“Oh, then you haven’t seen enough. They can be big babies.”

Peter chuckled again. 

“What do you want to carve onto your jack-o-lantern?” Natasha asked.

“As much as I’d love to do some crazy intricate pattern and astonish the team with my pumpkin carving skills, I think I really want to do one of those cheesy faces that you see everywhere.”

“Do you want me to show you how to carve, or do you want to figure it out?”

“Is it like carving limbs?” Peter asked, the same way someone would ask “can I get pepperoni on my pizza?” “Because I’ve had to do that before.”

Natasha blanched, though her face remained passive. “It’s a bit tougher. Pumpkins have a thick rind.”

“DV bones are pretty dense,” Peter stated.

“I’m sure they are,” Natasha replied. “Here.” She handed him a Sharpie. “Wanna draw your design first?”

“Sure!” Peter grabbed the pen and began to examine the pumpkin. With his tongue stuck out and brows furrowed in concentration, he began drawing the simple shapes.

Gripping the knife to make his jack-o-lantern was a little too familiar. Too similar to the feeling of the knife he used to slash through the flesh of the other DVs during combat. However, it was exhilarating using his masterful knife skills to do something so mundane. He was using a tool that he could easily kill a room of hostiles with to create art, something that made him smile and feel proud.

The face wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t perfect because he didn’t want it to be. The left eye was a little bigger than the right and the teeth weren’t symmetrical. It was imperfect, and that felt much better than making something immaculate. 

Sam came in later with a big dinner.

“Gotta have fuel if we’re gonna be walkin’ around all night,” Sam said.

Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “It’s got the same face as my jack-o-lantern!”

The puff pastry laid atop the pan did have the same triangle eyes and crooked smile as his pumpkin.

“Thought you’d appreciate it.”

“I appreciate it a lot! I love it! Thank you,” Peter said. 

“Careful,” Sam said as Peter grabbed to grab the dish. “It’s still hot.”

Peter, unfazed by the temperature, sat the dish on his lap. “Wait.” He pulled out his camera and took a photo. “Okay. Good. You got a fork?”

“Here y’go.”

Peter wiggled in excitement as he got his first bite, eyes fluttering shut as he let out a pleased hum. “Yummy,” he mumbled.

“I’m glad. Mama Wilson’s recipe.” He took a seat next to Peter. “So, I’m gonna be the one goin’ out with you tonight.”

Peter’s face brightened. “I get to spend the whole night with you?”

Sam nudged his shoulder with his. “You sure will. Hope you can deal with that.”

“Deal with that? You’re— you’re the best!”

Sam shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“But you are!” Peter insisted. “And I can’t wait to spend my first night out with you.”

“Me too, kid,” Sam said with a smile. “Have you ever watched _Hocus Pocus_?”

Peter shook his head.

“Oh, we’ve gotta watch it. It’s a modern Halloween classic.”

When the film had ended and Peter was finished scraping his dish clean, he set it on his nightstand and turned to Sam, his lips pressed into a tight line, barely concealing the smile breaking through.

“Do you want to see your costume?”

“Yes!” Peter blurted out. He settled himself. “Yeah, if that’s alright with you.”

“‘Course it’s alright. Should be waiting outside.” Sam headed to the door, opening it to reveal a garment bag. “And here it is.”

“Can I,” Peter swallowed nervously. “Can I do a big reveal? Like in the makeover movies?”

Sam chuckled. “I’d love a big reveal.” He handed him the costume. “This was custom made, so it shouldn’t be too abrasive on your skin, and should fit you perfectly, but let me know if there’s any problems.”

“I will,” Peter said with a nod. He disappeared into the bathroom, bag clutched in his hands.

After a few minutes of quiet rustling, Peter called from behind the door “are you ready?”

“I’m ready!” Sam replied.

It took everything in Sam’s power not to burst out into hysterical laughter at the sight of the boy, and the only thing that was stopping him was the pure, innocent elation on his face. No force in the cruel world could crush this boy’s joy. 

“Isn’t it amazing?!” Peter squealed.

It was… something. A long blue tube with four thinner tubes for Peter’s limbs and white details for the underbelly of the dolphin along with a tragic dolphin head protruding atop Peter’s head. Below the dolphin’s beak was a hole just large enough for Peter’s face to poke out. 

“It’s… great,” Sam said.

“I love it so much,” Peter said, eyes closed as he swayed. “Are you ready to go?”

“Don’t forget your mask,” Sam said. He looped the mask onto his ears. “There. Now we’re ready.”

“How am I gonna carry all the candy?” 

“With this.” Sam handed him a large plastic pumpkin basket. “We got a big one since the weight won’t bother you, and we thought you’d want to get as much candy as you could.”

Peter grinned. “Thank you. Let’s—” He cut himself off. “May we go now?”

“Let’s go!” 

The ride down to the ground floor was a nerve-wracking blur. Despite his excitement, Peter was contemplating turning back and going back to his room to eat leftover cake in the safety of the tower with the team.

But he wanted this. He wanted it so bad. And it was scary wanting something so terrifying and so different.

The elevator rumbled as they reached their destination. 

“You ready?” Sam asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” Peter replied, fist clenching tighter around the handle of his plastic pumpkin. “Well, lead the way.”

Outside was everything Peter had dreamed and more. He had seen the city from distant glances, took in the mucky air in just a brief moment. He had watched the sky dissolve into warm colors, the sunset painting the sky with such beauty he had not been accustomed to. But now? Now he was finally taking the time to absorb it all.

He pulled out his camera and began snapping pictures of everything that caught his eye, but only for a quick minute. He didn’t want to lose the moment while stuck staring through a lens.

Sam kept his hand gripped around Peter’s wrist as he led him through the crowded streets, letting Peter’s eyes wander.

His lips were parted, eyes wide as he gaped at everything they passed. He was astonished by all the light that filled the evening sky, enamored by the way the pale amber street lamps dusted all who walked beneath it in a warm glow.

Peter was in no rush to get to the main event of the night, basking in the experience of the outside, noting all the different scents that went by, whether it be the lingering scent of baked goods from behind a bakery’s door or sharp rubber of bikes parked outside apartments or the many shampoos and colognes and distinct scents of the people walking by. 

“The trees. They really do change colors,” Peter said quietly.

Sam nodded. “Yeah. They do.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Peter took a few pictures of the trees, and continued his trek. 

“There’s a group goin’ up to that apartment,” Sam said. “Do you want to start Trick-or-Treating or do you want to keep walking around?” 

“I think I’m ready to start Trick-or-Treating,” Peter decided.

“Watch your step,” Sam instructed.

Trick-or-Treating was not nearly as frightening as Peter had thought. Though there was a twinge of unease as he continued to meet more and more strangers, their kindness made him slowly relax as the night went on.

Peter made sure to say “thank you” and “have a good night” when he received his candy, and more often than not, the people at the door smiled, and sometimes told Sam that “your son is so polite.”

“You havin’ a good time?” Sam asked as they were walking to the next set of houses.

“I’m having an amazing time!” Peter declared.

“You mind givin’ me that king sized Snickers?” 

“Not at all!” Peter rummaged through his basket and pulled it out. “One king sized Snickers for Sam.”

Sam chuckled. “Thank you very much.”

The hair’s on Peter’s neck stood up, a low hum of alert surging through him. Before he could comprehend what he was doing, one hand was grabbing a heavy pillow case and the other was colliding with a soft torso, stumbling from the sudden impact.

“Woah! Thanks dude!” the stranger said. “You even caught my candy bag? You’re a lifesaver, man. I don’t know what I would’ve done if my night’s hard work fell into the grates. Like, super bummer right? Well, now it’s not because you totally came to my rescue which, like, thanks by the way. Do you have a favorite candy? Because I’ll give you a piece as a token of my gratitude.”

Peter blinked. “I… like Rolos.”

The stranger made a grabbing motion with his hand towards his bag. Peter jerked in realization and handed him the pillowcase. 

The boy handed him three candies. “May the Rolos be with you, Young Padawan.”

Peter’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Uh, thanks.”

He held out his hand. “I’m Ned,” he said. “That’s Michelle,” he nodded his head in the direction of a costumeless girl with a blank expression that could rival Natasha. “We actually just ran into each other like half an hour because we’re both taking our little sister’s Trick-or-Treating because apparently fourteen is too old to go on my own, and my parents don’t want to be on Trick-or-Treating duty anymore, so I’m stuck with it for the night. But, hey! Free candy, right?”

“Right?” Peter replied. “I’m fourteen and I’m going Trick-or-Treating. Am I… too old?”

“No! No. Totally not. I didn’t mean that at all. Honestly, I don’t think any age should be too old because I mean like, who’s ever gonna be too old for Halloween? It’s like the best holiday of the year.”

Peter nodded silently.

“Do you live around here? I’m guessing you don’t go to my school because I’ve never seen you around, but then again, I don’t _really_ pay attention _that much_ , so maybe you do and I’ve just never seen you around.”

“I’m home schooled,” Peter said.

“Oh! That’s cool. I could never do that. I think I might go absolutely bonkers if I had to spend 24/7 with my parents. Especially if they were my teachers. I mean, I love my parents, but they aren’t good with school stuff. One time, I had a vocabulary quiz, and my mom said that the best way to make it stick was to hit your head every time you said the word to make it stick. My head hurt so bad afterwards, and I never asked for her help with vocab again.”

“Uh… huh?”

“Epic dolphin costume, by the way. I wouldn’t have the guts to go as something like that.”

“Oh, uh, thanks,” Peter said awkwardly. 

“Oh! I’ve been talking so much, I didn’t even ask for your name.”

“Peter.”

“Nice to meet you, Peter,” Ned said with a grin. 

“What are, uh, what are you supposed to be?” Peter asked.

“Han Solo? You couldn’t tell?”

Peter’s face scrunched in confusion. “Who’s that?”

Ned’s jaw dropped. “ _Star Wars?”_

Peter shook his head, still clueless.

“You’ve never seen _Star Wars_? Like, ever?”

He shook his head again. 

“It’s only the most amazingest, cinematically mind-blowingly awesomest movie series ever created _ever_!”

“I guess I’ll have to watch it,” Peter said meekly.

“Dude, maybe we can watch it together! I’m always looking for an opportunity to binge. I gotta warn you though, prequels kinda suck, but you _hav_ _e_ to watch them to appreciate how good the other ones are.”

Peter looked to Sam, eyes wide with uncertainty.

“Do you have an email?” Sam asked Ned, pulling his phone out.

“Oh yeah! I do! It’s [ n3dl33dz01@gmail.com ](mailto:n3dl33dz01@gmail.com). Really annoying to say out loud but it makes sense when you read it.”

The little girl in the sparkly blue dress tugged at Ned’s sleeve. “Ned. C’mon. I wanna get more candy.”

“And that’s my cue,” Ned said. “It was really nice meeting you, Peter. I hope we can have that movie marathon!”

“Me too,” Peter said.

“Have a good night!” Ned called from over his shoulder. 

“He seems… nice,” Sam said.

“He’s just like the characters from my fictional movies.”

Sam snorted. “C’mon, let’s get to the next house.”

At their next stop, there was a large bowl sitting on the festive doormat of the apartment. 

“You can only take one piece,” Sam said.

Peter nodded. “I will only take one.” He scanned the selection and spotted a king sized Twix amongst the mini bags of M&Ms. As he went to grab the bar, his hand was entrapped by a hard skeleton hand, locking his wrist in its grasp.

He gasped sharply, body going rigid.

“Shit!” Sam rushed to Peter’s side, careful not to touch him. “Hey, Peter? It’s okay. You’re safe. It’s October 31, 2015. You’re out Trick-or-Treating. That’s not a cuff. You’re not going to get punished. You’re safe.”

Peter heaved ragged breaths, eyes squeezing shut until he could finally rip his hand away from the bowl, cradling it to his chest. “I… I… want to go… home.”

“Okay. Let’s go home.”

The walk back was silent, Peter wiping his quiet tears with the fabric of his costume. 

“Do you want to go back to your room?” Sam asked.

“I want… can I see the team? I want to be with everyone.”

“Of course you can,” Sam said. “JARVIS, can you tell everyone to meet on the common floor? Tell them that Peter is asking for them.”

“The message has been sent, Mr. Wilson.”

“Thanks.”

“You can take off your mask now,” Sam said, not mentioning that the fabric had been thoroughly soaked in tears.

“Can you help me?”

“Yes, I can,” Sam replied, pulling it off for him gently.

“Thank you.” He sniffled. 

Sam placed a hand on Peter’s back, rubbing light circles in his tense muscles.

The elevator opened with a ding, and Peter’s breath escaped him at the sight.

All of the Avengers stood there, all suited up in costumes.

“We thought since you dressed up as your favorite animal, we’d dress up as ours,” Steve said, adjusting his felt dog ears.

Peter giggled, covering his mouth with his fabric fin.

“We thought we could all snack on candy while we show you some old Halloween photos of all of us,” Tony said wearing a soft platypus onesie.

“Unfortunately, some of us didn’t celebrate Halloween as children,” Natasha said in white fluffy fox ears and tail, face with masterfully done makeup.

“And some of us didn’t grow up with accessible cameras,” Bucky added, crossing his arms over his chest uncomfortably in his fuzzy goat costume. 

“But we can look at everyone else’s,” Bruce said, sitting stiffly in a chair, his turtle shell poking over the other side.

“Luckily, we do have very accessible cameras now,” Clint said, voice muffled by the giant hawk head. 

“You are not getting _any_ photos of me tonight, Barton,” Bucky said through gritted teeth.

“Can _I_ get a photo?” Peter asked. 

Bucky softened. “ _You_ can get as many photos as you want.”

“Everyone huddle up! I want you all in it!” Peter instructed, backing up to get the shot.

“You sure you don’t want me to take it?” Sam asked. “I don’t have a costume.”

“There’s a nifty thing called a timer,” Tony said. “Here, everyone get ready, I’ll set it.”

Peter wiggled into the middle, bending his knees awkwardly so he wouldn’t cover Bruce’s face.

“Say cheese!” Tony said.

Begrudgingly, the team did. As Tony ran to get into the photo, he slipped over his fluffy slippers and faceplanted onto the carpet.

Instead of stiff smiles, the photo captured doubled-over laughter and many pointed fingers at the blurry brown lump sliding across the bottom of the frame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you dredfulhapiness for the wonderful edit!


	15. Chapter 15

The Avengers were sprawled across the couches and loveseats of the TV room, glasses and bottles of various drinks in hand.

After spending hours watching home videos and eating too much sugar, Peter was ready to crash. Natasha escorted him back to his room while the team shed off their costumes.

“Gotta say,” Bucky said. “Seeing Tony all dressed up as Steve is somethin’ I never thought I’d see.”

“Oh shut it,” Tony snapped, though his ears were tinged a bright pink. “Who didn’t like Captain America when they were a kid?”

“I think it was very endearing,” Steve said.

“Don’t think this means anything, Rogers,” Tony said, sipping on his mocktail to hide his tinted cheeks.

“How was he tonight?” Bruce asked. “Other than whatever happened that made you come back, was everything alright?”

Sam nodded. “He was lovin’ it. Talked to people no problem. He even sparked up a conversation with one of the chattiest kids I’ve ever met. I was surprised he wasn’t gonna check out right there and then.”

“What did happen?” Steve asked.

“One of those candy bowls that grabs your hand when you grab a certain candy bar,” Sam said, jaw clenched.

“Oh shit. That couldn’t have been easy on him,” Clint said.

“It wasn’t,” Sam said, taking a swig of his beer. 

“You handled it well, though,” Steve said.

“And you guys really helped him. What was all of this?” Sam asked.

“Figured it was wishful thinking that Peter would last the whole night. Wanted to have a backup plan for him to come home to,” Tony said with a shrug.

“It was perfect. Nothing could’ve been better,” Sam said. “I think this was really good for him. He needed this. Going out, I mean. He’s been making so much progress with us, but I think introducing him to real human interaction, it… I think he gets it a bit more. And I think we should introduce more.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asked.

“Sometimes the vets I work with have to slowly work into goin out and talking to people because the world they’re goin’ out to has changed. But Peter? He’s a dry sponge just waiting to suck up more information. Everything about the world is new to him. Everything is different than the life he was living before, and when he was living it, he was barely old enough to experience it. And that doesn’t scare him at all. If anything, the fact that everything is so different makes him want to go out even more. All he wants is to learn how to have his own life and learn how to live it. He can’t do that locked in here forever.”

A silence fell over the room.

“I have to agree with Wilson,” Bucky said. 

Steve frowned. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, he got triggered—”

“By something that he wouldn’t run into out and about on a normal day,” Bucky interjected. “Steve, don’t do what you did with me and keep him out from the world because you think you’re protecting him. He’s gonna have to learn what doesn’t work for him, even if that’s learning the hard way. But he’s not gonna learn anythin’ if he’s cooped up in here all the time.”

Steve snapped his mouth shut and gave a small nod.

“I was planning on going grocery shopping tomorrow?” Clint said. “I can take him with me.”

“Wouldn’t that be a little overwhelming?” Steve blurted out. “They’re— I mean they can be very crowded.”

Bucky gave a small glare. 

“And loud,” Bruce added.

Bucky sent an even stronger glare at him.

“I’ll take him when it opens. I can wake up early and take him before the rush. The streets’ll be quieter too.”

“I think it’s a good idea,” Natasha said, leaning against the doorway.

Everyone jumped, less Bucky.

“Integration into the outside world is imperative for progress. It’ll be good for him.”

“Pick up some more Goldfish since you keep stealing it,” Tony said.

“I am not  _ stealing  _ your Goldfish!” Clint said. “In fact, it’s not  _ your _ Goldfish when  _ you _ put it in the communal pantry. Plus, when you get the pizza flavor blast, can you really expect me not to snack on them?”

“Yes! I can!”

“Fine,” Clint said with an exasperated sigh. “I’ll add it to the list.”

The next morning, Clint and Peter sat in his beat up pick-up, Peter practically vibrating in the passenger seat.

The boy wore his mask and a thick pair of light filter goggles AKA special dial vision sunglasses tailored to his super senses so that the sun didn’t damage his sensitive retinas. 

Clint didn’t bother with chatter on the drive there, instead just let the boy admire the city through his tinted windows, an awestruck astonishment evident in his open mouthed smile.

“It is so different in the light,” Peter said. “It is much quieter.”

“Yeah. It is,” Clint replied.

Peter went back to watching the world as it passed by.

Peter had been so enamored by the sights that he hadn’t realized they had parked. Though, Clint wasn’t sure if it was more because of his unfamiliarity with cars.

“We’re here,” Clint said.

Peter’s head snapped up. “Oh. Okay.” Peter fiddled with the seatbelt before it finally unclasped.

“So, remember. Stick by me, okay? Don’t wander anywhere I can’t see you.”

“Aff— got it.”

“Cool. Let’s get in there.” Clint hopped out and helped Peter down, not that he needed it, but Clint’s dad instincts were kicking in, okay?

Peter froze as he exited the car, staring at the sky.

“What’s up?” Clint asked.

“The sun,” Peter said softly. “They alway said the sun was hot, but I didn’t realize it’d feel so…” He trailed off. “It’s nice. It’s warm. I like it.”

“I like sunlight too,” Clint said. 

“The trees are even more beautiful in the light.” Peter snapped a few shots of the parking lot trees.

“Alright. Let’s head in. Stay to the side, okay? Gotta be careful. Watch where you’re walking.”

Peter kept his eyes forward, thankfully, and followed Clint like a shadow.

When they entered the Trader Joe’s, Peter’s eyes went wide.

“So many smells,” he said.

“You wanna look around a bit? I can pick up what I need when we pass it.”

“I would like to look around.”

“Let’s look around then.”

Peter examined the shelves of breads, leaning in to smell them through their plastic bags. He recoiled as he sniffed the cinnamon raisin bread. 

Clint stifled a laugh. “Not a fan?”

“Not a fan.”

Peter took his time reading the different cereal names and descriptions, and Clint took the opportunity to search for his favorite coffee and creamer.

When he turned around, he froze, a sharp chill running down his spine. Peter was no longer browsing the cereals, the space he had once been empty. Clint frantically scanned the store.

“I like this one.”

Clint’s head snapped to his side where Peter was holding a bag of coffee beans to his nose, sniffing loudly. His palpitating heart settled. “Yeah, coffee beans smell really nice.”

“It’s like my bubble bath but even stronger.”

“That’s because that’s the real stuff,” Clint said. 

“May I get them please?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up, staring at Clint with shock.

“That’s a saying!” Clint said quickly. “It means yes.”

Peter’s lips formed a silent “o” before he shuffled to the fruit displays, pausing at the plum like fruits. “What is a passionfruit?”

“I… don’t really know. I know I’ve heard of it, but I don’t think I’ve ever had it before.” 

“Can we get one?” Peter asked tentatively.

Clint paused. “Get four. The old folks love trying the new foods of the future.”

Peter nodded and placed four into the cart. 

“You gotta put them in a bag,” Clint said. “Here. I’ll show you how. So first you take this plastic thing right here, then you rub your fingers to open the top and then you _ shake it out! _ ” He began to vigorously shake the plastic until it formed a bag. “And there ya go! Bag.”

“Bag,” Peter repeated. He scooped the passionfruit into the bag and placed it back into the cart.

They continued their trip in a similar fashion, Peter scouting out the different displays and asking questions, occasionally asking if they could buy something to try. It was then that Clint was thankful that Stark transferred an absurd amount of money onto his card for that sole purpose.

When they got to the freezer section, specifically the part where he historically always could never find his veggie nests, he realized it was a perfect learning opportunity for Peter. 

A worker happened to be restocking the mochi section, so Clint approached the woman.

Peter watched him curiously, head cocked to the side.

“Hi,” Clint said. “I was wondering where I could find the veggie nests?”

“Follow me. We  _ just _ moved them this week.” 

Peter trailed behind the two cautiously.

“Here they are!” she said. “Need anything else?”

“That’ll be it. Thanks so much.” Clint turned to Peter.  “If you can’t find something in the store, there are workers that you can ask for help. They are very kind. It’s their job to help you, and as long as you’re polite and patient, then everything will work out.”

Peter nodded, taking in the new information. 

“Oh! Forgot my mixed greens,” Clint said. “Gotta head back where we started.”

Peter stopped and eyed the corner with confusion. “That wasn’t there before.”

“Oh, yeah. They hadn’t set it up yet.”

“What is it?” 

“It’s a sample booth. They give you a little taste of a product to make you inclined to buy it,” Clint explained. “But you’re only allowed to take one.” He nodded his head to it. “Y’wanna try it?”

“Yes.”

“C’mon.” 

The two approached the booth, and the worker gave them a tired smile.

“Would you like to taste our butternut squash tomato basil soup?” he asked.

“We would love to taste your soup,” Clint said. He grabbed two cups and handed one to Peter.

The boy pulled down his mask and sniffed it warily. He sipped it before gasping lightly. “It is very delicious.” He sipped it again, savoring the taste. “May we please get the soup?”

“Yeah, we can. Whatdya say?”

Peter turned to the worker. “Thank you very much for the delicious soup.”

He smiled. “You’re very welcome.”

Peter finished his sample and Clint’s and they continued their grocery store journey.

They were inspecting the cheese selection when Peter felt something hit him in the leg. He still, frightened eyes searching for the source.

“What’s wrong?” Clint asked. His eyes drifted down and he caught sight of the problem. “It’s called a Nerf gun. It’s not a real gun. It’s a toy that shoots foam darts with suctions.”

Another nerf dart came their way, hitting Peter in the head.

A woman rushed over, face flushed in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry. Dylan just… he… Dylan! Come apologize.”

A little boy trudged over, disgruntled.

“Dylan,” the woman said warningly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“I really am sorry,” she said as she pulled him away.

“Are you okay?” Clint asked.

“These… Nerf guns. They’re used for recreation? For… fun?”

“Yeah. They are.”

“And do they operate like real guns?”

“I mean… their trigger mechanism is similar, but they’re way lighter than a real gun. And they don’t shoot as fast, so your trajectory has to be adjusted. And the bullets, uh, the darts are really light. And they rarely have a barrel, at least not a rifled barrel. And, obviously, they aren’t lethal. Uh, so they’re not  _ really _ like guns?”

“I have an idea.”

Natasha and Sam were sparring in the gym when they got the alert.

“Young Sir requests your presence on the common floor,” JARVIS said.

The two stepped away from their heated hand-to-hand, Sam thankful to finally get a break.

“I guess the grocery store didn’t go as well as we hoped,” Sam said.

Natasha sighed. “I really thought this was going to be good for him.”

“Believe me. Me too.”

The two headed to the elevator, running into Bruce and Tony on the way. The two men were disheveled, Tony coated in a thin layer of oil and soot and Bruce’s clothes holey and charred.

Natasha raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t ask,” they said in unison.

Sam nodded silently, still catching his breath from Natasha’s brutal training session.

The elevator stopped one more time on Steve and Bucky’s floor.

“Well it’s just a party in here,” Tony retorted. “Be careful. Steve’s muscle weight alone could send us plummeting to our death.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “But really. Is it safe for all of us to be on here?”

“You insult me,” Tony stated.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes, it is a yes.”

Bucky and Steve stepped on the (frankly, ludicrously large and extravagant) elevator, both folding their hands politely in front of themselves.

“You know we don’t mind PDA, right?” Tony said. “Seriously, I can cut the romantic tension from here. I would say sexual tension, but I don’t want to have the horrible image of you two doing anything more than a tasteful hand hold.”

“Shut it, Stark,” Bucky said.

Tony narrowed his eyes as he looked closer. “Your shirt’s on backwards.”

“No it’s not,” Bucky snapped.

Tony snorted. “O…kay.”

Before Bucky could retort, the door opened to the common floor.

“Guess they’re not back yet,” Sam said.

Suddenly, they were pelted from above, an aggressive plastic whir filling the room.

Their eyes shot up to meet Clint poking out of the vent and Peter adhered to the ceiling holding ridiculously large Nerf guns.

“I didn’t even know they made them that big!” Sam exclaimed.

“N-Strike Elite Hail Fire, bitch!” Clint roared.

“Language!” Steve scolded. 

“Every man for himself!” Clint yelled. “There is a gun for each of you hidden on this floor. Find it, and you get a chance to defend your honor!”

He shot Sam in the balls. Twice.

The team scrambled around the floor, searching for a weapon.

Natasha was the first, followed quickly by Bucky, and then Tony. It took Sam, a good five minutes of searching and Steve seven while Bruce gave up after a grueling three before he excused himself to the kitchen for a glass of herbal tea.

“Okay, I get why Natasha and Barnes are so good at this, but since when was Stark such a good sharpshooter?”

“Uh, hello?” Tony said, shooting up at the vents. “Weapons manufacturer? For almost two decades? Of course I know my way around a gun.”

Sam rolled behind the couch as he dodge a stream of darts. “Is anyone else gonna talk about the fact that Peter just has a pile of ammo stuck to his stomach? That’s gotta be against the rules, right?”

“There are no rules!” Clint yelled. “This is lawless land, Wilson! Now, stop your yapping and fight like a man!”

When Sam stood, he somehow got three shots from three separate angles straight to the balls once again. “That’s it! I surrender.” He limped to the kitchen, calling out a weak, “hey Bruce.”

“I’m tapping out too,” Steve said. “I’m too sore to be squatting right now.”

Tony wolf-whistled.

“Watch yourself, Stark. I know where you live,” Bucky threatened. 

“And then there were five,” Clint stated.

“Or… four?” Tony said.

“Huh?” Clint looked to his side and saw that Peter had disappeared from his spot. “Oh no.”

Somehow a dart landed straight into Clint’s mouth as he spoke, the man coughing as it collided with his uvula.

The room erupted with chaos. If they thought the battle prior was ferocious, this second round was cutthroat and merciless. Peter and Natasha had vanished, yet their marksmanship was flawless, hitting the other three from everywhere and nowhere. Bucky focused on the targets he could see, alternating from calculated shots to the vents and to Tony who was now using his repulsors to zoom around the room.

However, that came to bite him as a flurry of darts slotted themselves in the crevices of the repulsors, sending him tumbling to the ground. 

“I’m out!” Tony announced. “Do not shoot! I am leaving the warzone!” He hobbled to the kitchen. “Can someone get me like ten bags of frozen peas?”

“Reveal yourselves!” Clint shouted.

“Then you must emerge from your refuge and engage in true combat!” Peter yelled back, suddenly appearing.

Clint jumped down, landing with a small roll, and three shots to the back of Bucky’s knees. Well, what would have been three shots if his gun didn’t give a pathetic click indicated that it was out of ammo. “Aw, Nerf gun, no!” He scrambled to the ground to pick up the loose darts, but was bombarded by the other three teaming up against him. “Okay! Okay! I give up!” He stood, hands held up in surrender. 

Natasha, Bucky, and Peter all locked eyes. 

“You all good with calling a truce?” Natasha asked.

“Truce,” Bucky said with a nod.

“Truce” Peter repeated.

“Wanna go get victory lunch?” Natasha suggested.

“I could eat,” Bucky said with a shrug. “Peter?”

Peter shrugged too. “I could eat.”

The three sauntered to the elevator, leaving a dumbfound Clint staring.

“Oh, and Clint?” Natasha said. “Losers clean up.”


	16. Chapter 16

“Are you gonna use that red?”

“Uhhhh, no. Not right now.”

“May I use it?”

“Yup.”

Peter handed Steve the colored pencil, still engrossed in the nose he was shading.

While Peter and Bucky’s cheesecake was baking, Steve and Peter were settled at the dining table, drawing portraits of each other.

Bucky opted out of the activity, unwilling to subject himself to the embarrassment of showing the two artists his sorry excuse for a stick figure. Instead, he laid sprawled out on the couch, bundled in a sherpa blanket while he clicked through the channels.

“Buck, just choose something,” Steve called from the table, not looking up from his drawing.

“There ain’t nothin’ good on! I would choose something if it was worth choosin’!”

“Isn’t that cat show on right now? The one with all the nasty cats?”

“ _ My Cat From Hell _ ?”

“Yeah, that one.”

Bucky pondered the thought, pausing to consider it. “But I don’t want to watch that.”

“Then what  _ do _ you want to watch?” Steve asked.

“Something stupid,” Bucky decided. “But not people bein’ stupid. Just something stupid.”

“I think Hallmark's Countdown to Christmas started?”

A grin grew on Bucky’s face. “You are a genius.”

“That’s why you keep me around,” Steve said dryly. “For my big brains and common sense that you don’t got.”

“I keep you around for more than that,” Bucky said. “But I’m a gentleman, and there’s a child in the room.”

Steve glared at him and then rolled his eyes.

“Oh no. It’s a dog movie,” Bucky said. “Can you get me some tissues? You know what dog movies do to me.”

“Maybe it’s a happy dog movie?” 

“I don’t know. It’s startin’ off pretty sad.”

“Well then it’ll probably end happy! You don’t start sad and end sad. Especially in a Hallmark movie.”

Bucky snuggled into the couch, mumbling “it better.”

When Steve turned back, he was met with the concentrated, squinted stare of Peter. 

“Whatcha having trouble with?”

“There’s so many different shades in your hair,” Peter said. 

“Yeah. Your hair’s giving me some trouble too.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “It is?”

“Your curls are really intricate. They may not be tight curls, but they’re distinct.”

“Huh.”

The two fell back into a quiet rhythm, the soft scratching of pencils on paper and cheesy chatter of dialogue that Bucky kept huffing unattractive snorts of laughter at filling the silence.

There was a tapping on the window that made Peter jump.

“Just the rain,” Steve reassured.

“Nature sounds,” Peter said.

“Yeah. Nature sounds.”

Peter began to sway in his seat, muscles going loose at the noise, eyelids growing heavier.

“Hey. Wanna know what I love on a rainy day?” Steve asked, setting his pencil down.

“What?” Peter replied.

“Grilled cheese with tomato soup.”

Peter’s face lit up. “I just got a new tomato soup! Would you like to try it?”

“I’d love to. Thank you for sharing with me. Where is your soup?”

“On the common floor.”

“Hey, Buck? You mind grabbing his soup?”

Bucky let out a long groan, rolling off the couch and onto the floor. “Fine. You better make some too.”

“Of course, darling.”

Bucky gave him the middle finger when he was behind Peter. 

“You alright with sharing your soup with Bucky too?”

“I would love to share my soup with Bucky. Everyone should get to taste my soup.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“My soup makes me happy, so I want to make other people happy.”

Steve smiled. “I’m glad it makes you happy.” He headed to the kitchen. “So, how do you want your grilled cheeses?”

“White bread with a good cheese blend?”

“Cheese blend,” Steve said with a nod of agreement. “How’s colby, monterey jack, and swiss?”

“Perfect.”

Peter went back to his drawing, coloring Steve’s shirt by memory while he put together their lunch.

“Honey, I’m home!” Bucky called, shutting the door behind him with his foot.

“Stop touching the door with your dirty shoes. It’s leaving marks.”

Bucky made eye contact with Steve and raised his boot, pressing the sole directly to the white wood.

“You’re a nightmare.”

“You love me,” Bucky sang.

“Unfortunately.”

“Here’s your soup,” Bucky said, shaking the jar in his hand. “You want me to get it warmed up?”

“Yes please,” Peter said. “I’m almost done with my drawing.”

“Bucky. No. Do  _ not take my burner!  _ Use your own!” Steve whined.

“You’re using mine!”

“You do not own it.”

“I like that one!”

“Too bad! I’m using it!”

Steve backed up to grab the bowl of cheese, not taking his eyes off of the pan on the stove.

“You’re mean,” Bucky grumbled.

“ _ I _ am making _ you _ lunch, so be nice.”

Bucky begrudgingly set up his pot on the other burner.

Delicious scents swirled in the air, the sizzle of the butter and the bubble of the soup adding to the ambience as rain softly pattered against the window.

Steve plopped a plate with a pile of sandwiches and a bowl of steaming soup in front of Peter, careful to avoid his drawing. “Lunch is served.”

He went back to grab his, and took a seat across from Peter. “So, the best way to eat a grilled cheese is by dipping it into your tomato soup.”

“Into the soup?” Peter repeated, bewildered.

“Just trust me. It’s good,” Steve said. “Careful, though. It’s still hot.”

Peter picked up the grilled cheese, tentatively dipping it in the soup and blowing on it vigorously before taking a little bite. His eyes went wide. “Wow.”

“Good?”

“Exemplary.” He shook his head. “I mean, uh, really good.”

“I’m glad. Not burnt or anything, right?”

“Perfect.”

Bucky joined them after he finished cleaning the dishes. He let out a low moan as he took a bite. “Oh, Steve. This is great.” He moaned again, even more obscene than the first.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Steve asked, eyebrow raised.

“This soup is delicious, Peter,” Bucky said, ignoring Steve. “Thank you for sharing with us.”

“You’re welcome,” Peter said. “Does it make you happy?”

“It makes me very happy,” Bucky said. 

The two continued to eat their lunch, Peter eating at his usual glacial pace while Steve and Bucky tried to take their time, filling the time with stories.

Peter finished in a half hour, a record time for a meal that size, and was slouched in his chair, eyes blissfully fluttered shut. 

“You full?”

Peter hummed in response, giving a slow nod.

Steve looked out the window. “Oh man, it’s raining cats and dogs out there.”

Peter’s eyes shot open, head snapping to look out the window.

“That’s just a saying. It isn’t actually raining cats and dogs. Don’t worry.”

Peter pushed out from the table and plodded to the window. He placed a sleeve covered hand to the glass, mouth agape with wonder. 

Steve joined him, smiling softly at the boy who stared with awe at the rain. 

He pulled out his camera and began to take pictures of the rain, capturing the droplets on the window pane, tongue poked out as he squinted at the image.

However, the moment was brought to a harsh stop when a crack of thunder boomed.

Peter dropped to his knees, trembling hands held out in front of himself.

Steve sat next to him, bringing his hands back. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s just the thunder. You’re safe.”

“Thunder?” Peter repeated.

“It happens when it storms. It can’t hurt you. It’s just loud.”

“Very loud,” Peter muttered. He winced as thunder rumbled again, even louder than before.

“You know, when we were younger, we didn’t like the thunder either,” Bucky said. “But there was something that could protect us from that fear.”

Peter looked up. “What was it?”

“It’s called a blanket fort. Nothing can scare you when you’re in the blanket fort and are with people who love you and will protect you.”

Peter went quiet, fingers quietly flexing. “I… would like to make the blanket fort.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to help us. Haven’t made one this big before.” Bucky began to drag the counter stools to the family room, and lined them parallel to the couch. “Steve, go grab the comforter from our bed.”

Steve gave a sarcastic salute and headed to their bedroom.

“When Steve comes back, I’m gonna need you to tuck the edge into the couch. Do you think you can do that?”

Peter nodded firmly. 

“Good. Help me bring the stools over here.”

The fort was nothing special. Their comforter was lumpy, and it dipped in the middle despite the height they got from the stools and couch. They covered their floor with all the pillows they could find (which Bucky took the opportunity to gloat about his absurdly large pillow collection that Steve complained about more often than not finally having a purpose) and settled inside with their fluffy blankets. 

Peter flinched again at the next roar of thunder. “Can I… have a hug?”

“Of course you can,” Steve said. He opened his arm for Peter to slot into. Peter curled into his side and rested his head on his chest as he focused on the steady thump of his heartbeat. Steve pet his hair gently, arm wrapped around his shoulders. 

Bucky snuggled into Steve’s other side, interlocking his flesh hand with Steve’s and resting his head on his shoulder. 

Peter’s eyes drooped shut, head slumping heavily.

_ Peter stared up at the giant fluffy blanket, illuminated by twinkling fairy lights. Mommy laid next to him on the couch cushions they had pulled off and spread out in their blanket castle. _

_ Peter’s face was nuzzled into Mommy’s neck, breathing in the scent of her sweetpea shampoo and flowery perfume. A chocolate stain from the brownies they baked that afternoon was strong, the splotch on the collar of her shirt stiff now that it had dried. Peter picked at it with his tiny fingers. _

_ “Don’t make a mess, sweetie,” she said softly. _

_ “Sorry, Mommy,” Peter mumbled into her collarbone. _

_ “It’s okay, sweetheart. Just don’t wanna stain the cushions. Remember what happened the last time we did?” _

_ He did. He had been eating a bowl of ice cream while watching  _ Atlantis,  _ and he spilled onto the couch, and Daddy had to scrub the cushions for  _ forever _ and even when he did, the stain didn’t go away. It was still a little brown in that spot.  _

_ His lip quivered. “I didn’t mean to make a mess. Now you havta scrub again.” _

_ She shushed him gently. “No, it’s alright. You didn’t make a mess. Nothin’ to cry about. It’s alright.” _

_ He sniffled. “I’m sorry.” _

_ “Nothin’ to be sorry about either.” She paused. “Did I ever tell you about the time your Daddy made the biggest spill and biggest stain?” _

_ Peter shook his head. “I don’t think so.” _

_ “So, you’ve seen the pictures from our wedding right? When Mommy and Daddy got married?” _

_ “Yeah! You looked like a princess.” _

_ She chuckled. “Well, my pretty dress, the one that made me look like a princess, was a very special dress. It cost lots of money and it belonged to my mommy when she got married.” _

_ “Grammy wore the pretty princess dress too?” Peter asked with a gasp. _

_ “Yes, she did. She gave it to me.” _

_ “Wow.” _

_ “So, it was my wedding day, and we were having a party to celebrate me and Daddy getting married. Well, me and Daddy were talking, and he was drinking his special juice, you know the kind he drinks when he gets home from work?” _

_ “The purple one that makes his breath smell stinky?” Peter asked. _

_ “That’s it,” she said with a nod. “Well, he was drinking that, and I came up to tell him that his nasty Aunt that we didn’t really want to invite had ripped her pants on the dance floor. He spit his drink all over my dress!” _

_ Peter’s jaw dropped. “But special juice stains really really really bad. And your dress was white!” _

_ She nodded. “And it did stain really really  _ really  _ bad. Daddy felt so bad about it, but I couldn’t care less about my dress. Because you know what? That just made me realize how in love I was with him. A million ruined wedding dresses couldn’t make me love him any less, let alone hold a grudge.” She leaned in and whispered, “Grammy wasn’t as forgiving as me, though.” _

_ Peter giggled. _

_ “You feeling better?” _

_ He nodded. “Thank you, Mama.” _

_ She pressed a soft kiss to his temple. “Anything for you.” _

“Hey Steve?” Peter said.

“Yeah?” 

“How did you know you were in love with Bucky?”

Steve’s hand froze. 

Bucky looked up. “Yeah, Stevie. How did you know you were in love with me?”

“It was my fourteenth birthday,” Steve said softly. “We were lying on the roof of my apartment building, and it was a cool night on an unbearably hot day. We spent the day inside, feet in a bucket of ice water trying to beat the heat while I was just trying to keep breathing. The humidity was never good for my asthma, and we were out of my cig… my medicine. We couldn’t afford any more. So, Bucky spent the day with me, talking to fill the empty air since I could barely get through a sentence without wheezing.”

“Had to make sure you’d save your air somehow,” Bucky said.

“Who’s tellin’ the story?” Steve asked, a fond smile on his lips. “Anyway, we’re on the roof. My birthday’s on the Fourth of July which means there’d be a firework show in the richer part of town, but you could see it from the rooftops even if it was at a distance. I could finally breathe enough to keep up with Bucky in a conversation, not that I minded listening to him talk for hours. If anything, I loved it.

“The fireworks had just ended and he told me he had a present for me. Now, you gotta know, I told him not to get me a present. Neither of us could afford presents, and it would just make me feel guilty that he spent the money on me, and, well, I didn’t want to get a present. 

“But he pulls out this box, and it’s not wrapped well, at all. Someone blindfolded could’ve wrapped it better.”

“This really necessary for the story?” Bucky questioned.

“Very,” Steve said. “So, I’m lookin’ at this box, and I have no idea what it could be. I open it up and it’s a Quaker Wheat box, and I’m lookin’ at him like he’s lost his marbles, but he just tells me to open it, and I couldn’t believe what was inside.”

“What was inside?” Peter asked impatiently.

“Art supplies.” A nostalgic grin spread across Steve’s face. “I was about to give Bucky a stern talkin’ to because art supplies didn’t come cheap back then, and there were so many colored pencils and charcoals and even some paints, and for a second I thought he musta robbed a bank to get the money for it, but then he told me that he didn’t steal anything.

“I obviously didn’t believe him, but he,” Steve looked at Bucky with a sparkling adoration in his eyes, “he had taken a job at the fancy art school up in the hoity toity part of New York that kids like us didn’t dare step foot in. He’d spend his nights sweeping the halls and emptying the garbage and wiping down the tables and windows. He worked there for months, and while he was there, he snagged supplies for me. He kept his word, he didn’t steal anything. Everything he got was from the trash that he was in charge of emptying.

“‘They’re so wasteful, you wouldn't believe it,’ he told me. And the closer I looked, I realized that they were more stubs than they were the full fancy ones. Some were snapped in half. Some had grooves where someone else had been holdin’ it. But there was a whole cereal box’s worth of supplies, and I couldn’t believe he did all that for me.

“He told me that it wasn’t just for me. He said the job paid well, and it helped out at home, but I knew he could’ve got an easier job that paid much better if he really wanted.

“And I started thinking. Just thought about all the things he did for me. How he stuck around with me even though I couldn’t run around with him and was sick more often than not and could never give him everything he gave me. And I realized that I loved him. I loved him so much that I didn’t know what to do with all that love. But, now I tell him as much as I can since I didn’t for a long time.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty gross,” Bucky said. “Kinda sad. He’s so in love with me. How embarrassing.”

Steve shoved his arm. “Jerk.”

“Punk.”

“Do you think I’ll fall in love one day?” Peter asked.

“I think you will. One day,” Steve said. “But you’re young. You’ve got a whole life ahead of you to fall in love.”

“I’ve got a whole life ahead of me.” Peter smiled. “I’ve got a life.”


	17. Chapter 17

The DV was malfunctioning.

It— he, he,  _ he  _ was… he was…

He was malfunctioning. Source: Unclear. 

He couldn’t breathe, the air too thick and his chest too tight. The pressure in his temples was excruciating.  _ What was wrong with him? _

Even with his sound dampeners, there was too much. Too much, too much, _ too much _ sound and smell and light, all attacking his senses making his head pound and ears ring against the deafening silence. His once soft pajama bottoms were rough against his skin and the fluffy hairs of his sweater tickling against his torso with too much input, too much to focus on, too many individual strands of fluff that he could feel, every single one, each and every one.

The edges of puzzle pieces were sharp against the pads of his fingers, sharp little stabs that pierced ever so slightly. He could feel his skin rebuild itself over and over again, cells knitting together to reform the perfect layer.

Natasha’s presence made his head spin, all of her scents mashing together. Her hair still damp stinking of all of the different minerals in her recycled shower water mixing with sickening coconut lime shampoo and aloe vera conditioner and rose body soap and sharp deodorant not quite yet mixed with the remnants of sweat he so often associated the scent to.

He could feel the air circulating in the room, could feel it brushing against his body and bounce off of the furniture and rush towards him at differing intensities. He saw little specks of dust floating around, congesting his vision, the crisp little dots crowding and filling and flying and falling and—

“Oh, and there’s the end of your audiobook. What do you want to listen to next?” Natasha asked.

“I don’t know,” Peter mumbled.

“Here, let me look at your to read list and you can choose—”

“ _ I don’t want to choose! _ ” Peter snapped.

Natasha looked to him with a calculated calmness. “What _do_ you want?”

“I don’t, I don’t, I don’t know what I want. I don’t… I want… I want…” He clenched his trembling hands. “I don’t want to have to make choices. I don’t want to make choices at all. I just want things to go back to the way they were when I would be told what to do and what not to do, and I wouldn’t have to think about everything. It’s so hard, and it hurts, and I don’t like it. I don’t like having to think all of the time and have  _ opinions _ and have to constantly think about working against everything I’ve ever learned, and suddenly do everything that I’ve been trained not to do for my whole life. I don’t want to think anymore. I don’t want to make choices anymore.

“I don’t want to have to think about how I talk or how to respond or how to add colloquialisms into my everyday speech to sound more informal and amicable. I don’t want to have to talk and answer questions and pretend that my choices make sense because I don’t know what I want, and I don’t know how to know what I want.

“I don’t want to keep doing things that make me feel bad and make me wait to be punished and never get punished because I wish you would! I wish you would just give me the punishment, and then the feeling will go away because then that means that everything is just how I know it, and I can stop making choices, and I can stop thinking, and I can go back to having my routine, and my training, and my injections, and my corner because everything is  _ too much!” _ He heaved shuddered breaths, chest rising rapidly as he squeezed his eyes shut, holding his palms out. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice. I will be grateful.”

“Hey. You don’t need to apologize. That… that was very important. I’m proud of you.”

He poked his eye open. “How can you be proud of me? My insubordination and selfishness is— it must be—”

“I’m not going to punish you.”

“Please. Please just, just make it go away. Just give me punishment and then I will know that my insubordination has been acknowledged and addressed. Make it go away so I will no longer be stuck in the unknowing.”

“I’m not going to punish you, and I never will,” she said firmly. “And you’re going to have to learn to accept that.” She pushed his hands down. “Because you are  _ never _ going to be punished like that ever again.”

“Please,” Peter pleaded, voice cracking quietly.

“I’m sorry, but I refuse. And I know it hurts right now, and I know you think it would be easier for things to go back the way they were, but that doesn’t mean that it would be better.” She looked at him with soft eyes. “You’re not used to this new life. I know you’re not. But I hope you realize that you don’t actually want to go back to the life you had. That what you really want is for things to be easier.”

Peter shook his head, fists clenched tighter.

“But you can’t. You can’t because now you have a real life as a real person, and being a person? It’s hard. It’s so hard and it’s not easy and it’s not simple. But being a person? That’s the best thing to be. And you have always been a person, but the life you had before, you… you weren’t treated like a person. You didn’t get to learn how to be a person because they didn’t let you. So remember that. Remember that they stole that from you. Remember that the life you had before didn’t have that because even though it was easier to live like that, it wasn’t good. They hurt you, a lot. And I know you think that’s the way the world should be, how your life should be, but it’s not.”

Peter stared at his hands, taking in her words.

“Sometimes…” Peter stopped, swallowing thickly. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve this life.” He took a shaky breath. “All I have ever known is purpose a-and pain. And I had always been told that I… that  _ that _ is what I deserve. I knew that I did. Because that’s how it… how it was. But now I am shown so much… _ kindness _ , a-and you all have so much faith in me, and you encourage me and listen to me and…  _ respect me _ , and I don’t deserve it. I have done nothing to earn this generosity, this  _ gift _ , this quintessential existence that I do not understand.”

“You don’t have to earn kindness.”

“But I do!” Peter exclaimed. “I… good things are earned. Exemplary performance warrants good things. I keep receiving good things, and I have not earned any of them, and yet, you keep giving and giving and giving and it makes me feel like my blood is itching and my head is screaming because I know that I have not earned it and that is not how it works, and I know,  _ I know _ that is how it works now, that is how it works here, but it’s not, it’s not, it is not how it is. I am always waiting for you to realize this. For you to remember that good things must be earned and take away everything until I do, but you don’t! You never do! And I hate waiting; I just want to stop waiting!” Peter’s voice boomed in the small room, throat feeling raw. 

“You’re scared,” Natasha finally said.

Peter nodded, the pressure finally releasing in his temples as tears began to fall. “I am,” he whispered. “I am so scared.” He bit his lip, holding back a sob. “I love my new life so much. I love it too much. I love you too much. I don’t want everything to go away.”

“We’re not going anywhere.”

“But what if you do?”

“We won’t,” she stated firmly. “Well, we will try. I cannot make impossible promises. But I can promise that we will try. We will do everything we can because we won’t leave you of our own volition. But we live dangerous lives, and things happen.”

“This is not very reassuring,” Peter said with a wet chuckle.

“I’m sorry it’s not. But there are no perfect promises. No guarantees. We just have to try. We try our best, and that’s all we can do.”

“Nothing is… certain. There are so many choices with so many advantages and disadvantages that I must determine the most adequate even if they both have innumerable inferiorities. There are choices for the most inconsequential, menial things. It is too much. Too much pressure to know what I want all the time. I wish I could just be given things even if it is not superior to my standards. I do not mind doing and having things that are not exemplary.”

“We know you don’t mind. It’s just important to us that you express what you want and don’t want.”

“If I vehemently do not want something, I can express so. But making choices is… draining. It is complicated and exhausting. The process is long and requires too much reliance on my preference. I follow the steps because Bucky had said that was supposed to make it easier, but it does not make it easier, it just makes it long and tiresome and I just…” He huffed a frustrated breath. “Sometimes I wish to just settle for something that is just fine. Something I did not have to choose.”

“I think we can find a compromise,” Natasha said. “How would you feel if when there’s an opportunity for choice making, sometimes we ask for you to choose, and sometimes we choose for you but ask if it is satisfactory to you and your preferences?” 

Peter’s eyebrows knit together. “I… that would be… I would like that.”

“Then I’ll tell the team to do just that. We didn’t know that it was overwhelming you so much.”

“It is.”

“Well, I can see that now.”

Peter nodded silently, lips pursed tightly. 

“What’s on your mind?” Natasha asked.

“How can I ever repay your kindness?”

“By being you,” Natasha said, lip quirking up. “By showing us the same kindness we show you.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You have been.”

Peter shook his head, gaze falling to the floor.

“Really. You have. We all care about you a lot, and we love the time we get to spend with you. You may not be perfect, but you try to be kind when and how you can, and that’s what matters.”

“I’m just so tired.”

“I know.” She held her arms open. “Would you like a hug?”

“No thank you.”

“Alright. That’s totally fine.”

He flexed his fingers, jaw clenched as he continued to stare at the floor.

“I’m very proud of you,” Natasha said softly. “What you did today was very brave. It couldn’t have been easy telling me how you’ve been feeling. I am very honored to know you trusted me enough to tell me.”

“Of course I trust you,” Peter mumbled.

“I know it may not feel like it, but this is a big step in your progress. I would be more concerned if you were adjusting perfectly. It’s okay to have setbacks. It’s okay to have bad days. Recovery isn’t easy.” 

Peter didn’t look up, thumb still tracing circles on the back of his hand.

“ _ And _ , I am very proud of you for saying no. I know it doesn’t come easily either.”

“It is not easy,” Peter agreed, wringing his hands tightly. “May I…” He clamped his mouth shut.

“Hey, it’s alright. What do you want?”

“May I get my coffee beans?”

“Of course you can.”

“Thank you.” He pulled himself weakly off the carpet and ambled to his bedside table, pulling out the coffee beans and sliding into the far corner of the room, knees pulled to his chest as he buried his nose into the bag. His head went limp as he rested it on his shoulder, softly thumping against the wall. He sighed a breath of relief.

“Would you like to be alone for a while?”

Peter nodded, nose still covered. The bag crinkled at the movement.

“Steve will come get you for your dinner plans,” she said, heading to the door. “Get some rest.”

“I am not ill,” he mumbled.

“You need to physically recuperate from mental exertion.”

“Oh.” He took another deep breath. “I will rest.”

“Take it easy, Peter.” And with that, she was gone, her scent lingering but slowly dissipating as the air was cycled through the vents.

He let the room clear, drowning his senses in artificial silence and fresh coffee beans before he placed the bag back into his bedside table and crawled in bed. 

He was breathing easier. The pressure was washing away.

He was going to be okay. He believed it. He knew it.


	18. Chapter 18

Peter was having in the medbay for a check-up with Bruce, needle poked into his elbow while Bruce extracted his weekly blood sample. Bruce told him that it was because they needed to monitor the enhanced cells in his body frequently to make sure there wasn’t any further mutation or deterioration.

Peter hoped there was never going to be more mutation or deterioration. He just wanted to be normal. The closest thing to normal as he could being the way he already was.

Peter was edging closer to finding his normal. After his choice making compromise with the team, he was feeling significantly less like a "fish out of water." 

However, Peter was still trying to discover what kind of person he wanted to be. He knew that he was skilled at many things, though that didn’t mean he wanted to pursue them.

First and foremost, he was a skilled fighter. That was what he was trained for. That was what he was made for. He didn’t know much, but he knew that he didn’t want to become what  _ they _ wanted him to become.

He was a baker, though that was more for recreation. And his art, though phenomenal and almost hyper-realistic, had never been something he gravitated towards. There was one thing that he did love and hadn’t tried yet.

Science.

When he was a DV, his owners had introduced science to him during cognitive training to exercise his memorization and comprehension. They hadn’t intended to introduce him to something that he could love, something that he would continue to love with a passion that he didn’t quite understand yet.

There was so much he knew about science and yet so much he longed to learn. 

His brain worked in ways that he was learning were spectacular. The feat was an unnatural magnificence, and in a way, he had become so accustomed to it that he had never gained an appreciation for the power that he had.

He was made to remember. He was made to observe. He was made to analyze. Every second, every moment, he took in a million different pieces of information and stored them in his mind, categorizing them by even the subtlest of details. He worked to decipher their significance, the weaknesses and strengths, the possibilities and opportunities he could take. The millions of moments were picked apart and strung back together, constantly rattling in his mind to try and understand.

When he was a DV, his mind was in a comfortable idle. Everything was familiar. It was only overworked during cognitive training. But in this new world, there was so much to learn. So much to understand.

When he was confined to his new room, there were the cream walls and beige floors and the overwhelming cacophony of sound.

In his old living quarters, he had heard the quiet mill of what he would learn to be the town above where he had once resided. He had grown accustomed to the murmured chatter, shuffling and clinking and clattering of daily life that he didn’t understand.

He had assumed these noises were what the world had always sounded like.

But then he learned that there was a bigger world. A world that he didn’t understand.

The DV understood everything. It always understood.

But then it no longer understood.  _ He _ no longer understood. 

He came to realize that they had hidden the world from him, and they did it well. The things they had shown him in cognitive training were carefully calculated. Science and math and vocabulary, safe from exposing the humanity outside of the lies they had conjured to become his reality.

There were facts of life. Facts of his life. But in those glimpses of something more, something beyond the simple facts of life, he was gifted with hope.

He may not have understood it to be hope. Not yet. But it gave him a reason to keep living. A reason to push through physical training and injections because three times a week, he would get to learn.

His first weeks in his new life, his real life, were consumed in science.

Suddenly, he had all the time in the world to explore science. To learn. It was familiar yet exhilaratingly unknown.

The DV used to be appalled by its inferiority.  _ Peter _ was thrilled of the opportunity for new knowledge.

Peter liked science. No. Peter loved science, and he wanted to get lost in it. Wanted to get lost in the unknown. Wanted to explore and discover and experiment and experience and learn, learn, learn. 

So he took a step.

“Bruce?” Peter asked as the man pulled out the needle and placed a cotton ball over the puncture hole, waiting for it to heal itself.

“Yes?” Bruce replied, eyes still focused on the cotton ball.

“You’re a scientist, right?” Peter asked.

“I am.”

“And you… do science… things, right?”

“I’d like to think so, yes.”

“Could you… could you show me? And maybe, can I do science… things, too?”

Bruce looked up. “What do you mean?”

Peter flexed his fingers in his lap. “I mean, I… I’m interested in science. And there’s only so much I can learn from reading.”

Bruce pursed his lips, gaze not quite meeting Peter’s. “I’ll talk to the team, alright?”

Peter’s face fell.

“That’s not a no. It’s more of a ‘let’s save this for later,’ okay? We just want to do this safely, alright? I’ll need some time to prepare, but I promise, this isn’t a no. It’s not even close to a no.”

And Bruce hadn’t been lying. It wasn’t a no.

Choice-making time was replaced with a visit to his lab. It was an organized chaos, cluttered yet clean.

“Sorry for the mess. I was mostly focused on clearing it out of anything potentially dangerous.”

“I don’t mind the mess,” Peter lied, eyeing the workbench with a clenched jaw.

“So, I thought we could do a simple crash course on lab safety and basic lab procedures. Get you comfortable with the equipment and the lab safety… and lab… procedures,” Bruce said lamely. “So, uh, yeah.”

“I am a quick learner,” Peter said.

“I do know that,” Bruce nodded. “But, you gotta be vigilant when working. Science is about precision.”

“I will be the most precise.”

For the next few hours, Peter remained in a constant state of astonishment as he worked with the different tools, things that he had only heard about from words on a page. 

Micropipettors were a challenge. It was delicate work, something that challenged Peter’s self-restraint and strength in ways that he wasn’t used to. The pressure necessary was gentle and miniscule even for the average human, so it was infinitesimal for Peter.

Bruce demonstrated the centrifuge by separating cream from milk, a process that had Peter dumbfounded. Then, they spent some time measuring and transferring liquids from different containers. They did so with colored water so Peter could see the results of his mixtures.

Just as Peter expected, he picked up on the techniques like he was born for it. Science at its core was completing tasks, and he could complete tasks.

Tutorials morphed into labs, and then shifted to free-range experimentation, and Peter was starting to find his place.

There was something so fascinating about biochemistry. He himself was a scientific anomaly. However, he couldn’t investigate his own biology, so instead, he busied himself with the task of creation.

His first prototype had come to be by accident. It was a gloopy, sticky mess that adhered his hand to the workbench when it had overflowed from its beaker. They soon discovered that his concoction could adhere to any and all surfaces, and luckily dissolved in a few hours. 

As always in all of his experiments, Peter had kept a careful log of ratios and measurements.

He made the adhesive again in a bigger beaker, and made sure to keep his hands far away from the bubbling mix. 

He studied everything he could of its chemical makeup. He investigated the way it interacted with objects (no immediate corrosion evident) and kept watch of his skin after his previous encounter (no physical reaction, though he wasn’t sure if that was his enhancement). 

Peter did not know what he wanted to accomplish with his creation, but he knew he wanted to do something.

It wasn’t until he ran into Clint, who had returned the night prior with a stitched up gash on his cheek, that he finally got inspiration.

“What if I used my adhesive to help people?”

Bruce looked up from his computer. “What do you mean?”

“Like what if… what if it can be used like a bandage. You could— I was— well, I was thinking. If I can compress the compound and construct a pressurized applicator that would spread it in an even layer that could be adjusted to the severity of a wound, it could... well, it could be used like a surgical skin glue or a bandage that specifically adheres to the skin. Of course, I’ll have to run some tests to ensure that there are no health risks introducing the compound to the bloodstream. I’ll have to run some trials with blood samples—”

“Peter!”

The boy’s head snapped up as he froze.

“Breathe.”

He closed his eyes and took a few long breaths, hands still shaking by his side. 

“I think it’s a great idea,” Bruce said once he had settled slightly. “And I think if anyone can do it, it’s you.” He pointed with his pen. “But, it’s gonna be a lot of work, and it’s gonna need a lot of changes.”

“Yes. I do know that. But I have some ideas.”

Bruce smiled. “I’d love to hear them.”

Lab time came to replace movie time and blended into puzzle time and tech time. As he pieced together an 10,000 piece sunset, he rambled and worked with JARVIS, Natasha giving him nods of encouragement, though not of full comprehension.

Babbling to Tony was a breath of fresh air. His input was intelligent and innovative and invigorating. Sometimes he even popped in during lab time to see his progress.

The trials came with an infuriating amount of failures and setbacks, the development of improvements were few and far between, but they were there, and that just made Peter push forward and work harder.

For weeks, Peter was stuck on the chemical reaction with the blood. Though he would never tell Bruce, he tested the solution on a wound of his own to gauge the pain. He wasn’t sure what an acceptable amount of pain was considering how desensitized he had become to it, but he figured the most acceptable amount was none at all.

The compound burned and itched, two things he knew were unacceptable. So he kept working.

Tech time with Tony turned into applicator engineering time. Tony was much more fit for that sort of construction (no offense to Bruce), and he had a lot to teach Peter about a different kind of science. Something that wasn’t even a science, but adjacent. Engineering.

Engineering wasn’t exactly like what Peter had come to understand normal science to be. “It’s its own thing,” Tony had explained. Instead of equations and ratios, engineering was all about intricate measurements and the way that different pieces worked together to accomplish a task.

To create the applicator, they started big. Big enough that Peter could clearly see the inner workings of the mechanisms and tweak with ease. Then, the prototypes began to shrink, tinier mechanisms built with tinier tools. Soon enough, they had a viable product, or at least, first draft of a first draft.

Back in Bruce’s lab, Peter had hit a wall. The texture and opacity was perfect, but there was something about the chemical makeup that still stung when introduced to real human blood. 

The answer came when he was making Nonna Carbonell’s famous spaghetti and meatballs.

“Don’t forget the sugar. Gotta neutralize the bitterness.”

Peter stilled. “That’s it.”

Tony looked up. “Hm?”

“I… I have to get to the labs. I think I figured it out.” He grabbed a piece of garlic bread. “If I’m not back when it’s ready, eat without me.” He rushed to the elevator. “I’ll see you later!”

And suddenly, it all clicked into place. A carefully but hastily mix of a neutralizer, and the solution went matte.

With a shaky breath of anticipation, Peter made a light scratch on the back of his hand and spread the mix onto his skin.

_ No burn. _

He laughed out loud, not fully believing that he had finally figured it out. The laughs slowly turned into sobs, and he sat on the floor, gasping for air.

He had made something that was his. Something that had nothing to do with  _ them. _ It was his, and _ he _ did it, and he… he didn’t know what to do.

He dissolved the solution (he really needed to think of a name, didn’t he?) and stared at his hand while it mended itself back together, steadying his stuttered breaths.

“Young Sir?” JARVIS said. “Sir wants to know if you will be joining him for supper.”

Peter grinned. “Tell him on my way. We’ve got something to celebrate.”


	19. Chapter 19

“Hey Sam?”

Sam looked up from the pot of macaroni he was seasoning. “What’s up?”

“Do you still have that email? The one the boy from Halloween had given you?”

Sam paused. “Yeah. I do. Why d’ya ask?”

“I was thinking about him. He had said he would watch  _ Star Wars _ with me, and I… I was thinking,” he swallowed nervously, “that maybe I’d like to. If it’s not too late.” At Sam’s hesitance, he continued. “I’ve made a lot of progress, a-and I’ve been going out more and talking to more people, and I’ve been practicing my colloquial dialect, and I…” He stopped. “And I think I’m ready. And I… I love you guys, but I also— I want—” He clenched his eyes shut as he took a breath. “I want to have a friend. A real friend. And you guys are my friends but you’re also my family, and I want to… I want to be a normal teen with normal friends.”

Sam sighed. “Let me talk to the team, alright?”

Dejected, Peter nodded. “Alright.”

That night, Peter left his sound dampeners out, keeping an ear out for Sam and the team.

He was about to retire to bed when he heard them.

“So, Peter wants to meet up with the kid from Halloween,” Sam said.

“He does? He said that?” Steve asked.

“Uh huh. And he was pretty adamant that he was ready and that it would be the next step in his progress. Also pulled the ‘I want to be a normal kid’ card.”

“Brutal,” Tony said. “He knows how to utilize everything he’s got.”

“As much as we all wish he could just have those normal teen experiences, it’s not… it’s not safe, right?” Steve said.

“It can be,” Natasha interjected. “He’s a smart kid, and he can adapt. We just have to make it clear what is and isn’t acceptable.”

“Well, we can just invite the kid to the Tower,” Tony said. “Even  _ if  _ he signed piles of NDAs, he’s still a kid. Plus, it defeats the whole ‘being normal’ thing Peter is going for.”

“Are we forgetting about the apartment building I own?” Clint interjected. “I'm sure there's an unoccupied apartment we can use.”

“So, what?” Sam said. “We set up shop in an empty apartment? Won’t that look just as suspicious?”

“Tony’s a billionaire,” Clint pointed out. “He can furnish it.”

“Oh, I see how it is. Using me for my money,” Tony said.

“You’ve got lots of money to use.” 

“...True.”

Steve sighed. “So, what are we gonna tell him?” 

The team began to bicker and plan, and Peter felt satisfied enough to drift into sleep.

The next morning, Peter woke up with a skip in his step, though he wouldn’t let that show.

His foot tapped impatiently as he waited to be told the news he already knew. 

He sat at alert as he heard the door begin to unlock, then sprawled out into a loose, casual stance. 

“Oh! You’re up,” Bucky greeted. “How’d you sleep?”

“I slept great, thanks for asking. How about you?”

“Same old, same old,” Bucky said with a shrug. “You mind if I sit with you?”

“Not at all.” Peter scooted to give him room.

“So, Sam talked to all of us last night.”

Peter raised his eyebrows in feigned disinterest. “Oh, he did?”

“Yeah. He said you wanted to meet up with that kid you met on Halloween. What was his name again?”

“Uh, Ned... I think.” 

“Right! Ned.”

“So, uhm, what did you guys think?”

“We think that it must be very important to you if you’re asking for it. And we think that it’s an important step for you in your journey to progress. So, yes. You can meet up with Ned.”

Peter beamed.

“But, we’ve gotta lay some ground rules. Alright?”

Peter’s face fell, going hard with concentration. “Of course. Anything.”

“Just like Halloween, you can’t talk about your enhancements. Or your owners. Or really anything pertaining to your background as a DV. So, that includes your training, punishment,” Peter winced, “injections, or anything else that alludes to your experience as a DV.”

“But that’s my whole life? Do I just… lie?”

“You just omit the truth and tell half truths. You had a backstory for Halloween, just… expand. You didn’t live around here until recently. You’ve been homeschooled since you were a kid. You were a really sheltered kid.”

Peter nodded. “And what do I say about the team?”

“Well, if you want to talk about us, refer to us as your family members.”

“Family members?” 

“Yeah. We’re your family,” Bucky said with a soft smile, nudging Peter’s arm. “Be it, a bit of a confusing family.”

“So… what do I tell Ned?”

“Well, the team, we’re like your uncles and aunt, Nat being the aunt. Except for Sam. He’s your dad.”

Peter’s eyes widened in awe. “Sam is my dad?”

“Well, not in the way you’ve seen in the fictional things on your tablet.”

“In what way, then?” Peter asked.

“Sam is your guardian, which means that you’re not biologically related. But legally, he is your parent.”

“And he is my dad because he cares for me like a dad would.”

“Exactly.”

“So I’m… adopted.”

“Yes! You’re adopted.”

Peter pondered on the thought. “But people who are adopted are chosen by their family. I was found and tolerated. It is not the same.”

“We don’t just tolerate you, Peter,” Bucky said. “We may not have found each other organically, but that doesn’t mean that we got stuck with you. We chose to choose you. We chose to stay with you. But do you know what we didn’t choose? We didn’t choose to love you. We just do. We love you, and we will keep loving you because that’s what a family does, no matter how strange or unconventional.”

Peter ducked his head bashfully. “Thank you, Bucky.”

“Anytime, kid.” He patted his arm gently. “So, what are you gonna do when you’re hangin’ out with Ned? And what are you not gonna do?”

“No powers. Nothing DV. I’m just a kid who had a rough, sheltered childhood and was adopted by Sam and is finding his way in New York.”

Bucky grinned. “Have a good time, kid. You deserve it.”

The trip to “Peter and Sam’s apartment” was filled with nervous excitement and nerve-wracking hesitance. 

Peter wanted this. He wanted a chance of normality. But he was scared that he would do it wrong. He was scared he would scare away the first friend he had the chance of making.

The apartment building was dingy, but weathered with a charm that made Peter smile. As they entered the apartment, Peter was astonished.

Just like the floors of the team, it was filled with life. Colorful blankets strewn across the couch, coffee stained mugs in the sink, chairs not quite pushed in the same at the counter. It looked like a real home.

“Natasha did a sweep after Tony got the place furnished. She said a ‘perfectly clean house is suspicious. An imperfect house is not.’” Sam looked around. “Definitely made it look lived in.”

“Imperfection is comforting,” Peter stated. “The little marks of individuality make even the most artificial feel natural.”

Sam rummaged through the drawers and cupboards in the kitchen. “Wow. They stocked this whole place.”

“Had to make it look real, right?” Peter said, not looking up as he wrung his hands.

“Hey. You okay?”

“Nervous.”

Sam placed a gentle hand to his arm. “How about we take the grand tour to keep your mind busy?”

“There’s more?” Peter questioned.

“D’you wanna see your ‘room?’” 

Peter’s face lit up as he nodded enthusiastically. 

“C’mon. It’s over here.”

Peter’s jaw dropped as he entered the room. It was nothing like his current room. It was generic yet personal, carefully filled with clutter. It was warm and worn like Steve and Bucky’s floor, the walls littered with posters and the desk covered in his different pictures he’d done from his time with Steve. 

“Wow,” he said, unable to think of anything else.

“When Ned comes over, you two can come in here and talk, but if you’d prefer to be where I am, you can set up on the couch.”

“We are going to watch a movie,” Peter stated. “There is no television in this room.”

“Couch it is.” They headed back to the main area. “Do you want me to sit out here? I don't have t—”

“Yes please.”

“Alright.” 

Peter scanned the kitchen and perked up. “My lemon cookies!” He rushed to the counter where the plate laid. “They brought my lemon cookies!” He turned to Sam. “Do you think Ned would want one?”

“You can always ask, and the worst case scenario, he says no.”

“That is not the worst case scenario. There are many scenarios that are much worse.”

Sam let out a surprised chuckle. He ruffled Peter’s hair. 

Peter pouted and ran his fingers through his curls. Suddenly, he stood straight, head turning to the door. “Ned is coming.”

“He is?” Sam asked.

“I recognize his scent and footsteps.” Peter stopped. “Which is something I can’t say to him.”

Sam squeezed his shoulder. “You’ve got this.”

There was a knock at the door.

“You wanna get it or do you want me to?” Sam whispered.

Peter didn’t respond. Instead, he headed to the door and plastered on a smile, barely containing his excitement and covering his nerves. “Hey!”

“Hey!” Ned replied. “I was wondering if you were ever gonna email. Not to guilt trip you or anything! Totally get it. Life happens. You’ve got a life and stuff. I do too. So I totally get it. Ugh, sorry. I’m already making such a bad first impression. Or second impression.”

Peter laughed awkwardly, opening the door more to let Ned in. “It’s alright. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. Things just got so crazy with school.”

“You’re homeschooled, right?” 

Peter nodded. “Yup.”

“What’s it like?”

“Lots of reading. And hands on science and math.”

“That’s awesome. I go to a STEM school, it’s like, uh, science, technology, engineering, and math.” He tapped his fingers as he explained. “You’re into that kind of thing?”

“Love it. My uncles are really into engineering and biochemistry, so I get to work with them.”

“Ugh, that’s  _ so cool! _ My parents don’t really get the whole STEM thing. It all kinda goes over their heads I think, so I never really have anyone to talk to about it with.”

“Well, you can talk to me about it.”

Ned grinned. “So what are you into?”

“Biomedical engineering is my main focus right now. I’ve got a little project I’m working on. Nothing special. Just playing around with an idea.”

“That’s awesome! I’m more of a computer guy. Coding, hacking, that kind of thing.”

“Coding?”

“Yeah! So, working with robotics and AI. Obviously, I haven’t gotten very far with it yet, but I have made a robot that cleans my mirror which like, I know it doesn’t sound that cool, but whenever I try to wash my mirror it always ends up streaky, but when Mirbo does it, it’s always smooth.”

“That sounds really cool,” Peter said with a grin. He wanted to tell Ned all about Tony’s bots and AIs, but he knew that those things were not the norm, so he bit his tongue.

“Okay, as much as I want to geek out about science, we’ve  _ gotta _ get started on the marathon. I’ve brought  _ A New Hope _ — that’s the first movie of the series — and I’ve also got some necessary movie snacks because I would be a terrible guest if I did not grace you with a bag of Rolos — I remembered those are your favorites — and also show you the true way of life.”

“Which is?”

“Peter Last-Name-I-Don’t-Know, have you ever had white cheddar popcorn seasoning?”

“Uh, can’t say I have.”

“Oh, man, your world is about to get flipped upside down and right side again once you try this. It is  _ revolutionary _ . It is absolutely, completely mind-blowing.”

“I better get the popcorn started then.”

“Okay, so I gotta ask. How blind are you going into this? Because I do not want to risk spoiling anything for you.”

“Uh, I really don’t know anything.”

“C’mon, really? Like not anything?” Ned asked.

Peter shrugged. “I mean, I know about Han Solo now. Couldn’t tell you who he was if I had to, though.”

“Dude, you’re completely unbelievable!” Ned said with a guffaw. “Were you raised in an underground cave with no access to the internet?”

“ _ Me? _ Raised  _ underground?” _ He laughed loudly and uncomfortably. “No! Totally not. I was definitely raised  _ above _ ground.” He cleared his throat. “I was a really sheltered kid. I didn’t have a TV or computer growing up, and the times I did get time with them, it was always educational… shows. I’m kinda catching up to all of that now that I’m out of there.” He smiled sadly. “I, uh, just got adopted this year, and my new family is a lot more open to that stuff than the people I was with before.”

“Dude, I’m so sorry. That sounds rough.”

“It’s what got me here,” Peter said with a shrug. “And what I’ve got now is really great, and I wouldn’t trade away my past if it meant I wouldn’t be where I am today.”

“Well, you know what this means, right?”

Peter shook his head. “No. What?”

“It means that you get to experience the best films in film history without bias or spoilers! And I get to be here to see your reactions.” He stopped. “That is, if you want me to.”

Peter smiled. “I’d love that.” An awkward silence fell over the two, so Peter clapped. “I’ve got some lemon cookies if you’d like one. No cross contamination with nuts, but they do contain gluten and dairy.”

“Don’t worry about allergies. I have been blessed with the ability to eat whatever I’d like. Sadly, my sister has a shellfish allergy, so we can never get sushi with her. But I can have anything.” He walked to the kitchen with a skip in his step and grabbed a cookie from the plate. He moaned in delight. “Dude, where did you get these? These are like ridiculously good.”

“Oh. I made them.”

Ned’s eyes went wide. “You  _ made  _ these? Like are you talking boxed mix or like full on, from scratch?”

“Full on, from scratch,” Peter said with a chuckle. “I like to bake.”

“I can tell. Dude, you could literally sell these. You’d make a fortune. I would gladly trade my soul for a plate of these.”

“Uh, well, no need to trade your soul. You can take them if you want.”

“No. I couldn’t.”

“Really. My family doesn’t like keeping sweets around anyways, especially considering how much I make.”

“Are you sure? Because like, I don’t think you’re realizing what you’re doing here. I’m gonna get addicted to Peter Insert-Last-Name baking, and I’m gonna keep coming back for more.”

“I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

Ned laughed. “How are you even real?”

“I could be asking the same thing. I mean, you wanna watch movies with me, you like science,  _ and  _ you’re giving me an excuse to bake? You’re like my dream come true.” Peter’s face flushed with heat. “Ugh, gosh, that was weird wasn’t it? I made it weird. Yup. I did. Ignore me.”

“Not weird at all.” Ned clapped Peter’s back. “I think we’re gonna be good friends, Peter I-Still-Don’t-Know-Your-Last-Name.”

“Wilson,” Peter said after a beat. “Peter Wilson.” He caught Sam’s eye who was looking at him, lips curled in a teary smile.

“Well, Peter Wilson, let’s get this cheddar in the popcorn and this show on the road!”

“Wouldn’t you rather watch this show on the couch?”

Ned stopped, and then snorted as he clapped Peter on the back again, harder than before. “I like you, Peter Wilson.” He hopped onto the couch, popcorn bowl in hand. He flipped open the cap of the artificial cheese that reeked of chemicals. “Prepare for your mind to be blown.”


	20. Chapter 20

“Hey, Tony?” 

Tony looked up from his bucket of bolts that he was rummaging through. “What’s up?”

“You own this building, right?” Peter asked.

“You got that right.”

“So that means that you own my room?”

Tony paused. “I mean, you could say that.”

“And you… you were the one that made the fake room, right? The one in Sam and my fake apartment?”

“Well, I mostly bought a catalogue of preset decor.”

“Could you…” His lips pressed into a tight line. “I would like a room like the fake room. N-not to say that I am not very grateful for the room that you have given me now. It is satisfactory. It is absolutely adequate. But I… the fake room, it was… it was like the fictional rooms of the fictional teens. My room, it is… it is mine, but I…” He shook his head. “Nevermind. I am not making any sense. I am content with what I have now. Just forget I asked—”

“Hey, hey. No, it’s alright,” Tony said softly. “You know, you  _ are _ due for an upgrade.” He set his oil stained tool down and wiped his hand on his shirt. “Okay, we were gonna wait to bring this up, but I guess there’s no time like the present.”

“Bring what up?”

“The room you’re in right now was never meant to be a permanent sitch. If anything, you’ve overstayed your welcome to be cooped up in there.”

Peter blanched.

“No, wait! That’s not what I meant! I mean, that room was always meant to be someplace inoffensive and featureless. Something that was easy to adjust to and accommodate you when you first arrived, but not house you forever.”

“So you’re no longer going to house me?”

“No, no! Shit, I’m bad at this.” Tony scrubbed a hand over his face. “We want to give you an upgrade. The whole team. We figured it’s time for you to finally get your own space. More freedom, more room for expression, the whole shebang.”

“My own… space?”

“Your current room is… lacking, to say the least. It’s impersonable. It’s… cozy. It’s also very utilitarian and plain. I mean, it doesn’t even have windows!”

“So… you are installing a window into my room?”

Tony sighed. “We’re gonna get you a whole new room. Something better. Something that you’ll get to design yourself. It’ll be on Sam’s floor, so you’ll have a flatmate to keep you company and all that jazz, and, well… it’ll be yours. Your room now, it may be yours, but it was never designed to  _ be _ yours. This new room, it’ll be all yours.”

Peter’s eyes went wide. “Mine?”

“Yeah, bud. Yours.” He smiled. “I was thinking we could go on a shopping spree for decorations. Let you look around and see what suits your fancy.”

“Can Pepper come?” Peter asked.

Tony jolted slightly in surprise. “I can ask her. May I ask why?”

“Pepper has an eye for interior design.”

Tony, obviously still reeling in shock over the statement, gave a silent nod. “I’ll see when her schedule’s free, alright?”

“Alright.” Peter gave a thumbs up and bright smile.

Decked out in his outdoor protection along with a big puffy bright blue jacket and fluffy bright red scarf and mittens to keep him warm, Peter waddled into the sliding doors of Home Depot with eyes filled with wonder and awe.

Tony and Pepper looked very strange. They explained to him that people would bother them if they recognized them in public, so they had to wear disguises.

Tony had extra stubble on his cheeks, messy and rough unlike his pristinely groomed facial hair he usually had. Pepper had fake hair on, a shade similar to Peter’s own hair, and much shorter than her own. Peter knew it was fake hair because it smelled different than real hair.

They both wore sunglasses and hats and clothes unlike anything Peter was used to seeing them in.

Tony explained that they were to blend in.

Peter thought they looked strange. The argyle cardigan Tony wore was a size too big and was paired with dull khakis and shiny brown shoes. Pepper looked like the moms on his fictional shows, and Peter liked it much more than her fancy dresses and shoes that clicked when she walked.

“So, first things first, you gotta pick the color of your room,” Tony said, breaking him from his thoughts. “So, over here, there’s a wall full of different colors. If you want me to pick some choices for you so you don’t have to—”

“I know what color I want my room to be.”

“Oh. Well that makes this much easier.”

Peter scanned the little colored slips of paper, running his fingers over the rows of cardstock before stopping at the blues. He squinted his eyes as he scrutinized the choices before finally picking the bright blues and pointing at a shade. “I want this.”

“It looks a lot like—”

“It is the same shade as my dolphin costume and my jacket, yes. It is the superior shade of blue.”

Tony nodded. “‘Life Force’ it is.”

“You can also have an accent wall,” Pepper said. “It’s a wall that is different from the main color. It can be a different color, a pattern, a mural, some people even do chalkboard walls so they can change it up whenever they want.”

Peter paused to think, tongue poked out as he pondered the choices. “I would also like a chalkboard wall. May I have a chalkboard wall?”

“I can do chalkboard paint. Pep, you know where to find that?”

Pepper smiled. “I’ll go get some. Can you two handle getting the cans mixed? It’ll be three gallons of  _ flat _ Life Force. Think you can remember that?”

“My cognitive functions such as memory have been—”

Tony put a hand over Peter’s mouth. “He’s got a good memory. We’ll be fine.”

Peter nodded, humming an affirmation behind Tony’s palm.

The three left Home Depot with paint, things to paint with, and candy bars from the checkout area to snack on in the car.

“Next stop, mattresses!” Tony announced.

Mattress shopping was something foreign to Peter. His bed was something of pure luxury compared to his sleeping arrangements as a DV, and he hadn’t thought that there could possibly be anything better.

There were many types of mattresses. Some were too soft: memory foams and pillow tops, making Peter’s body sink down into the fluff until he felt like he was drowning in the squish. Some were too firm: hard yet springy, giving support but not enough comfort. But there was one perfect mattress. One mattress that gave him the best of both worlds, that didn’t stray into a softness too far from his comfort but also didn’t alienate his preference to a harder surface.

Tony had called him “Goldie Locks” and he had corrected him. “I have brown hair,” he said.

Tony just laughed which confused him. That was okay, though. Tony could be very confusing.

The next stop was choosing sheets and decorations for his room. 

Peter enjoyed this part the most.

There were many different comforters to choose from — ones with patterns, ones that were plain, ones that had images of things he didn’t recognize — but the one that stuck out the most to him was the softest one had laid his fingers on. It was silky smooth and heavy enough that he knew he would feel forever encompassed in a warm embrace. The bottom was a dark blue fading into a light blue, just like the sea that dolphins swam in. 

So, after a long day of shopping — Peter’s energy dwindling after the initial excitement of wandering around as he felt and examined the many different choices — the three headed back to the tower exhausted, but a room ready to be decorated.

With a well earned burrito bowl, Peter retired for the night to get energy for their big project. And if he was smiling until the moment his mind finally drifted into dreamland and his cheeks hurt that next morning, he wouldn’t mention it. It just felt too good to smile.

Peter loved Sam’s floor. Just like Sam, it was calm and comforting, smooth and soft. The colors were muted but bold, the decorations simple but full of character. He had been there enough to know all of the little quirks and secrets of the decor. It wasn’t until he got there that he realized he had never seen the rest of his home. It had never really occurred to him that behind the many doors, there were rooms that he had never seen.

Sam stood at the counter, the scent of his sandalwood body-wash still strong on his skin, the faintest scent of sweat and mineraly shower water lingering with it. He was gulping down a green smoothie that had the familiar notes of protein powder that Peter was so accustomed to.

“Morning, Peter, Steve,” Sam greeted with a smile. He narrowed his eyes. “Barnes.”

“Wilson,” Bucky replied curtly.

Sam raised a challenging eyebrow at him before turning back to Peter and Steve. “You guys getting set up already?”

“That we are,” Steve said. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all. I’ve gotta get down to the VA, so I’ll be out. You’ll have the place to yourself. Don’t party too hard.”

“Aw, but we already paid the male dancers. They’ve got their skimpy Falcon costumes all ready and everything,” Bucky said.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Is there anything you guys need?” 

“I wanted to say thank you,” Peter blurted out. “For inviting me into your home and for letting me stay with you and giving me a room that can be mine in a space that’s yours.”

“You’re very welcome, Peter. But don’t feel like you owe me anything. It’s my pleasure.” He slurped the rest of his smoothie down. “Plus, it gets pretty lonely around here. I think you’re just what I need.”

Peter smiled. “Have a good day at work.”

Sam ruffled his hair as he passed. “I will.” He slipped his jacket on. “Don’t burn the place down.”

“No promises!” Bucky called as Steve said “we’ll try!”

“So,” Steve said. “Time to paint.” 

The three headed to the bedroom, but a wave of uncertainty rushed over Peter. “Wait!”

They froze, turning to the boy.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked.

“I…” His words trailed off. “I just, I don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t think I’m ready to have my own room.”

Steve kneeled down in front of him. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I… because it’ll be mine.”

“And it’ll be one more thing that you can lose,” Bucky finished.

Peter nodded silently, biting his quivering lip. 

“You can’t keep keepin’ yourself from taking that next step forward just because you’re afraid that you’re gonna lose what you get. You’re always gonna be afraid you’re gonna lose it, but you gotta appreciate it while you have it, or else you’ll waste an opportunity that you never let yourself get.”

Peter swallowed thickly. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Bucky asked.

“Just… let’s go in. Before I…” He stopped. “I’m ready.”

The air was knocked out of Peter’s lungs as he caught sight of the room, already watery eyes welling with heavy tears.

“Wow,” he said softly.

“You like it?” Steve asked.

“It’s perfect.”

It was larger than his current room, but not overwhelmingly so. He could picture his new things in it, filling the room with life and love. 

“So, before we start, let’s plan this out,” Steve said. “Where do you want your accent wall?”

“The chalkboard paint?” Peter asked.

“The chalkboard paint,” Steve confirmed.

“I don’t want an accent wall.”

“Oh, that’s okay. You changed your mind?”

“I don’t want an accent wall. I want an accent… ceiling.”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up. “You want a chalkboard ceiling?”

“Then only I may access it.”

Steve shrugged. “Works for me.”

Painting was simple. Though gravity strived to work against him, paint dripping onto the plastic cover and sometimes into Steve and Bucky’s hair, Peter found a rhythm in the task.

Painting the ceiling was a careful process, Peter crawling on its surface and working from one corner to the other, being vigilant not to step in any paint and leave marks on the rest of the walls.

Taping was simple when he could reach the heights without ladders, and it was extremely satisfying seeing the plain grey walls disappear into the bright blue.

With the infectious synthetic beats of Peter’s music booming from the speakers, the three bobbed their heads as they worked to transform Peter’s new room.

“Hey, Bucky?” Peter had asked when they were taking a well earned lunch break. “I get why Steve is so good at painting, but why are you?” His eyes widened. “No offense. I really didn’t mean—”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Bucky interjected. “It was one of those odd jobs I picked up back in Brooklyn. Paid decent, was easy labor, so I took it.”

“Huh,” Peter said, taking another bite of his BLT. 

“So, you won’t be able to get settled into your new room for a few more days while the paint dries,” Steve said, “and plus, the new paint smell is almost unbearable for senses like ours, so we’re gonna leave it to air out and try to soak up the smell with some coffee grounds.”

Peter grinned. “My new room will smell like coffee?”

“Hopefully. Or at least, more coffee than paint.”

“I like coffee,” Peter said. “It smells like good mornings.”

“I like coffee too,” Bucky said. “Steve used to make the strongest coffee. Couldn’t stand it.”

“That’s because you drink more milk and sugar than coffee,” Steve said.

“Can’t argue there. Have you ever drank coffee, Peter?” Bucky asked.

He shook his head.

“You wanna try some?”

And that’s how he ended coughing until his throat was raw as he rinsed his mouth under Sam’s sink as he tried to rid his taste buds of the horrid taste of black coffee.

“How can it smell so nice and taste so…  _ vile _ ?” Peter asked, betrayal evident in his voice.

“I don’t know. If you want, you can taste it with the milk and sugar—”

“No. I never want to drink coffee ever again.”

Steve laughed and rubbed gentle circles on Peter’s back. “Okay. No more coffee.”

Though Peter never wanted to drink coffee again, the scent still filled him with comfort, and as he entered his new room, blue and blank, the faint chemical scent drowned out by coffee, he finally felt at home. 


	21. Chapter 21

The team was gathered for family dinner, an event they tried to do as often as they could, but realistically could only get on seldom occasion due to their differing schedules.

They were enjoying copious amounts of Thai food, splitting and sharing the different dishes as they all laughed over dramatic retellings of the most recent mission.

“And then this behemoth of a giant worm ran straight into barbed wire, and its guts just flew everywhere!” Clint exclaimed. “Thank God I had some of Peter’s medical webs or else I’d have a gut filled gash in my thigh and that would have  _ not _ been good. I mean, I had to take an hour-long shower just to get all of that worm gunk off.”

“Ugh, Jesus, Clint. Some of us are trying to eat here,” Sam said.

“Sorry, sorry. I just, God, where do these giant worms keep coming from? I feel like they’re all we’ve been dealing with for months.”

“Who knows?” Bucky said. “All I know is that they’re a pain in the a—butt.”

“All I ask is for them to give me a week off for Thanksgiving break. The last thing I need is to be called away from stuffing and cranberry sauce for  _ giant worms _ ,” Clint said, sipping on his beer.

“Thanksgiving?” Peter asked. 

“Have we not told you about Thanksgiving yet?” Tony asked.

“I’m familiar. Vaguely,” Peter said slowly.

“Well, Thanksgiving originates back in the colonial days of America. Both the European colonists and the natives were celebrating a bountiful harvest. The colonists then slaughtered the natives despite their passivity, kindness, and generosity,” Natasha said.

Steve glared at her. “ _ But _ , Thanksgiving is a celebration focused on giving thanks and spending time with family.”

“And good food,” Clint said. “Really good food.”

“Thanksgiving itself is usually celebrated with family. Big feast of turkey and mountain of fattening, filling sides, but we have a tradition to do a Friendsgiving the weekend before,” Tony said. “It’s a big party where all of our friends come together to celebrate our friendship and express gratitude and all of that.”

“Am I invited to Friendsgiving?” Peter asked.

“You can be if you’d like. There’s gonna be a lot of people there.”

“I would like that. I would like to be a part of Friendsgiving.” 

“Well, you better make the pies because no one can beat yours.”

Peter did make the pies. He made more pies than he had ever made in one sitting.

Tony had not been exaggerating when he said that there would be many people coming to Friendsgiving, and they required a lot of food to satisfy all of their appetites. 

So, he prepared three pumpkin pies, three apple, two pecan, and one key lime (mostly because he wanted key lime despite it not adhering to the autumnal themes of the holiday).

He put on pants that weren’t as soft as his usual daily outfits, but were apparently “nicer” and “fit for the occasion.” They were stretchy and smooth and the black fabric picked up particles that speckled the solid shade.

He picked his favorite bright red fuzzy sweater and slipped on a pair of outside shoes even though the party was inside. Sam helped him style his hair and he almost looked like the fictional teens from his shows.

“Remember, if you want to leave, you tell me. Doesn’t matter why, doesn’t matter what I’m doing, you come to me and we’ll go up to our floor and we’ll make that horrible cheesy popcorn you like and we’ll watch whatever you want. Alright?”

“Cross my heart,” Peter said, drawing an x on his chest.

“Alright. You ready?”

“The pies!” Peter exclaimed, rushing to the trolley. “Can’t forget about the pies.”

“No, we can’t,” Sam said with a grin.

“Well, are you coming?” Peter asked, standing at the elevator.

Sam chuckled. “I’m coming.”

The party was loud: a cacophony of noise of voices ringing out from the clashing chatter. The smells were abrasive whether it be the strong perfumes and colognes or the sharp scent of hairspray or the harmonious blend of foods on the table. He was thankful that it was dimly lit, the room washed over in a warm glow.

Peter pulled at his sweater sleeves, scanning the room for familiar faces.

Sam put a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “You alright?”

“I’m alright,” Peter reassured. “Just… this is all…”

“A lot?”

Peter chuckled dryly. “A lot a lot.”

“You’ve got this.” He pointed across the room. “That’s Clint’s son, Cooper. He’s about your age. Wanna go try talkin’ with him?”

Peter gulped. “Okay.” Tentatively, he left Sam’s side and made his way to the corner where the teen was scrolling through his phone. “Hey.”

Cooper looked up. “Oh, hey! Didn’t expect to see another kid here.”

“Yeah, I’m, uh, Sam’s kid. Kinda.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Oh, wow. Dad never mentioned.”

“It’s kinda a new thing.” Peter shifted his weight between the balls of his feet. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Clint talked about you a lot.”

He groaned. “Ugh, all good things I hope.”

“Not always.”

He snorted. “Great. Can’t imagine what kind of impression you’ve got of me then.”

“He told me we’re both curious and that it was a good thing.” He paused. “He  _ also _ said that he was expecting you to start your rebellious phase soon.”

He covered his face with his hand. “Ugh. He’s so embarrassing. I’m not going through a rebellious phase, by the way. Don’t even think I could if I wanted to. Rebellion gives me hives.”

Peter laughed. “That I can get.”

“You haven’t had one then? No offense, but you don’t really seem the type.”

“I’m not. Definitely.” Peter ran his fingers through his curls. “Apparently your dad is trying to set me and Lila up.”

Cooper raised an eyebrow.

“Blegh, oh gosh, not like that. I mean to be archery buddies. I’m… proficient in that sort of thing, and he thinks I could be a worthy opponent or something.”

“Ugh, you jocks and your arching,” Cooper said with an eye roll. “I couldn’t be bothered with that kind of stuff.”

“I hear you’re the brains of the family.”

“Gotta be when my dad’s got none.”

They both shared a loud laugh.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Cooper said.

“Peter.”

“Wanna get some drinks, Peter? I hear they’ve got the good soda.”

They  _ did _ have good soda. Cooper introduced Peter to the heavenly drinks that were shirley temples, and Peter found himself jittery from the cold carbonation with aching ribs from the long laughter.

Cooper checked his phone and frowned. “Ugh, sorry. I’ve gotta head out. We have to get back home tonight.”

Peter’s smile fell. “Oh. Okay.”

“I wish I could stay, but we’ve got a flight tomorrow morning. We always go to Vermont for Thanksgiving, skiing and stuff.” He gave Peter an apologetic smile. “It’s been really cool hanging out with you.”

“I… I’d love to get your number,” Peter finally said. “So we can keep in touch.”

“Totally. Do you have your phone with you?”

Peter hesitated. “I can get your number from your dad.”

“Alright.” He jogged to the door, giving one last wave before he headed out.

Peter sighed, swirling his shirley temple in his hand. It was only then that his stomach began to growl.

_ Oh, I guess I haven’t eaten anything. _

He trudged to the food table and began to pile food onto the two plates he had stuck and balanced on his arm.

“Finally grabbing a bite, huh?” 

Peter didn’t jump because he had already sensed Natasha’s presence. “Hey, Nat.”

“What’s with the face?”

“What face?”

“ _ That _ face. The melancholic glower.”

Peter’s scowl deepened. “Cooper had to leave.”

“Ah. So now you’ve gotta interact with the adults.”

“It’s not the fact that they’re adults that’s the problem.”

“It’s the fact that they’re strangers. And talking to that one stranger went well, but now you’re worried it’s only going to get harder from there.”

Peter nodded. “Yup.”

“Well, lucky for you, I need an excuse to sit in silence and eat appetizers, so how about you come join me at my table and we can just eat together?”

Peter smiled. “I’d like that.”

“Fill up your plates,” she said. “Also, make it look like you’re struggling to carry those because I know you’re adhering it to your arm right now, and it’s bringing too much attention to that little trick of yours.”

Peter’s lips pressed into a tight line and he gave a quick nod.

The two settled in the corner, and as she promised, ate in silence. Peter’s stomach was not quite satiated, but the burning edge was weaning into a dull ache, so he considered that enough.

He was observing the partygoers when he felt the air knocked out of him.

Standing tall and confident was the most beautiful person that Peter had ever seen. His long, cascading blonde hair flowed magnificently. His muscles, broad and big, were flexing as he enthusiastically waved his arms as he retold a story in a voice that was silky and warm. His guffaw was boisterous and filled with jovial life. 

Peter’s heart hammered in his chest, his throat clenching tight as his hands grew sweaty.

“Malfunction,” Peter stated, something he hadn’t claimed in a long while.

Natasha frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Who is that?” Peter pointed a shaky finger to the gorgeous man.

“That’s Thor. He’s the God of thunder, king of Asgard. He’s an alien.”

Peter nodded, gulping thickly. “So this… alien. He must have alien powers.”

“Mostly the thunder thing.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“And his powers? Do they include some sort of petrification initiated by sight?”

“Petrification?” Natasha repeated. “Are you… does Thor petrify you?”

“I do not know. All physical signs demonstrated are associated with petrification.”

“And what are these physical signs?”

“Tachycardia, excessive perspiration, tightness in the throat, chest, and abdomen.”

The corners of Natasha’s lips quirked up. “You know what I think it is?”

“What?”

“I think you’ve just gotten your first crush.”

“Crush?” Peter asked with a scoff. “This can’t possibly be what crushes feel like. This is… this is unbearable! And uncomfortable. And unsettling.”

“That’s definitely a crush.”

Peter huffed, and covered his flushed face as he sipped at his shirley temple.

“Do you want me to introduce you two?”

“Absolutely not. My mind is far from exemplary functioning. I would… I’d make a fool of myself!”

“I can tell you’re flustered.”

“Oh, you can?”

“You’re reverting back to your old idiolect.”

Peter buried his face in his hands. “Ugh. That’s just phenomenal. Just what I need.” He put his focus on shoveling more bacon wrapped hot dogs into his mouth. 

“Lady Natasha!”

Peter’s head snapped up.

“Ah, I hope I am not interrupting,” Thor said. “I just wanted to give my greatest praise to you for your delicious crostini. They are truly astonishing!”

“Thanks, Thor,” Natasha said. “While you’re here, I’ve got someone to introduce to you. Thor, this is Peter.”

“Ah! It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Peter…”

“Wilson,” Peter said meekly.

“Ah! Son of Wil, just as friend Sam!”

“Actually,” Peter said, “I’m Sam’s son.”

“Ah! Son of Sam! Your father is a valiant warrior, as I am sure you are. Your eyes are aged with war, plagued by the harshities of long life and pain. Your strength is evident, young one.”

Peter gaped at him speechlessly.

“Have you had these wondrous crostinis?” Thor questioned.

“Can’t say I have,” Peter said.

Thor dropped one on his plate. “You must acquire them before they are gone.” He began to walk away. “With haste, young one!”

Peter took a moment to catch his breath, still staring at Thor as he ambled away.

Natasha nodded. “Yeah. Thor’s a bit…” 

“Wow,” Peter breathed. 

There was a loud clink of glass, and hush fell over the room.

“Everyone take your seats! Dinner is served!”

Peter found himself slotted between Sam and Bucky, Sam giving him a nudge and soft smile.

Tony, who was at the head of the table, stood, his posture confident but his smile tentative. “You all know I’m not one for the mushy gushy feelings kind of stuff, but this is a special Friendsgiving. It’s special because we’ve got some new additions to our Friendsgiving, new additions to our family, and I think it’s important to talk about them.

“Change is unpredictable. It takes you by surprise and can flip your life in ways you never could have expected, whether it be for the better or the worse. Well, the changes that have happened recently, the new additions, the new memories, the new experiences, they’ve all changed my life for the better. They’ve changed our lives for the better.

“I am grateful for our family. I am grateful for our ability to adapt and accommodate and never push aside each other to make room for someone new. I am grateful for the moments we get to spend together, the good, the bad, the absolutely shitty, and everything that goes in between that makes these moments most memorable. 

“But most of all, I’m grateful that I get to spend these moments with you. That your welcome arms never falter, and that you have taught me how to follow in suit with my own. I’m grateful for all of you and every second I’m stuck with you.”

Pepper held up a glass. “Cheers.”

Everyone else followed suit, Peter lagging slightly behind.

Sam turned to the boy who wiped at his wet eyes. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Peter sniffled. “I am so grateful. I am grateful for so many things.”

“I’m grateful too. I’m grateful that I’ve got you in my life. I’m grateful that I’ve got to see you grow and will get to keep watching you grow. I’m grateful that you let me be a part of your life, your journey.”

“Thank you, Sam. For everything.”

Sam pulled him into a tight hug. “Thank you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know how i got lucky that my pre-written thanksgiving chapter ended up being posted the same week as irl thanksgiving. that being said, i hope you have a wonderful thanksgiving, friends!


	22. Chapter 22

“Sam! Sam! Come here! Quick!”

Sam’s eyes snapped open, barely catching himself as he flailed out of bed and fell onto the floor. He scampered to Peter’s room, gun in one hand and emergency beacon in the other ready to be pressed.

“Peter! What’s wrong?!” Sam asked as he burst into the boy’s room.

“It’s snowing!” Peter exclaimed, bouncing as he stared out his window.

Sam let out a breath of relief, setting his gun onto Peter’s desk. “Yeah, it’s snowing.”

“I’ve never gotten to see it for real before,” Peter said. 

“You wanna go out later?”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yeah. We can go play in the snow. Build a snowman, have a snowball fight, make snow angels, all that fun… snow stuff.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, the panic-fueled adrenaline dissipating.

“That’d be amazing!” Peter said. “But…”

“But what?”

“My body isn’t equipped to endure extreme weather. The spider DNA infused with my human DNA has eliminated my abilities to thermoregulate. So, extreme heat, extreme cold, it’s too dangerous.”

Sam paused, taking in the information. “We’ll figure something out, okay? You’re gonna get to go into the snow. I promise.”

Peter gave him a disbelieving smile. “Thanks, Sam.” He turned back to the window and stared wistfully at the falling flakes.

Sam, after grabbing his gun, headed back to his room, and crafted a message to Tony.

**tweety: You know those heater bodysuits you designed for our mission in the Alps?**

_ Tony: of course i do. why? you feeling chilly? you know there’s a wonderful thing called a thermostat _

**tweety: Peter wants to go out in the snow, but apparently his spider genes have problems with extreme weather?**

_ Tony: thermoregulation. we had theorized the possibility, but i guess it’s now confirmed _

**tweety: You think you can make one for Peter? Preferably ASAP?**

_ Tony: oh that’s funny. it’s like you think i don’t already have one made _

**tweety: Think you can bring it down sometime?**

_ Tony: oh i can do even better _

_ Tony: it’ll be on your floor in ten. be ready to come to the roof at noon _

Sam stared at his phone and sighed. Knowing that questioning Tony was a pointless waste of energy, he sent him a thumbs up and pocketed his phone.

When he entered the kitchen, Peter was sitting at the window and sipping at leftover gumbo. He let out soft, satisfied hums as he smiled wistfully at the snow.

“Tony’s got something special to keep you warm,” Sam said.

Peter perked up, eyes tearing away from the window. “Really?”

“Already had something ready.”

“So we can go play in the snow?”

“Tony said to meet him on the roof at noon.”

Peter grinned. “What should we do in the meantime?”

“We never did finish our game of Monopoly.”

When Noon rolled around, Sam was bankrupt and the two had consumed an ungodly amount of gyros and pasta salad.

“Hey, it’s time to head up,” Sam said. “If you need help with the suit, just let me know.”

“Will do. Thanks.” Peter scurried to his bedroom, barely containing his excitement as he ripped open the box.

He gasped softly as he pulled out the suit.

It was bright red accented with bright blue patches, black wiring running in a web over the surface. The fabric was loose as he slipped it on, but morphed to adhere snuggly, heat washing over his skin.

Peter hummed happily and pulled on the rest of his snow gear until he was bundled up like a fluffy marshmallow.

He waddled out of his room, his puffy snow pants constricting his every move. “I’m ready!” he said with a sunshine grin.

“You ready to see your first snow?”

Peter jumped in place, his boots making a heavy clunk as they hit the hardwood. “Yes!”

“Let’s get up there then.”

Peter was wiggling in his spot, bouncing on the balls of his feet, unable to hold back his impatience and eagerness. 

As the doors of the elevator slowly slid open, the two were bombarded by an onslaught of snowballs. Sam, in particular, got pelted.

“I would not like to partake in a snowball fight,” Peter whispered to Sam.

“Peter says no snowball fight!” Sam announced.

The team emerged from their hiding spots, dropping their snowballs, and giving apologetic smiles. 

“Sorry about that, kiddo,” Steve said. “We should’ve asked first.”

“It’s okay,” Peter said softly. “You wanted me to experience it authentically.”

“Doesn’t make it okay,” Bruce said. “Your boundaries and comfort are always important.”

“Thank you.” Peter stepped out of the elevator and gaped at the snowfall that dusted over him. “It’s so beautiful.” He giggled as he kneeled down and picked up a handful. “And cold.” He patted the snow into a lumpy ball. “I would like to make a snowman.”

“How would you feel about a snowman contest?” Natasha asked. “We split up in teams. The team with the best snowman gets a big mug of my world famous hot chocolate. The losers have to make their own.”

“How we splittin’ this up? The usual?” Bucky asked.

“The Science Bros will stick together, obviously,” Tony said. “Mr. and Mrs. Rogers, you’re team two. Wilsons are together. And Rushman?”

“Will judge,” Natasha finished. “Only seems fair.” She wiped a snow covered chair and took a seat. 

“So what is the criteria that we will be judged upon?” Peter asked.

“Roundness, smoothness, bigness, creativeness, and fastness,” Natasha stated. “You have been provided with the essentials for snowman decorating, but you may only get your decorations  _ after _ you have fully formed your snowman.”

“Are there top hats?” Peter asked quietly.

“Yes, there are top hats.”

Peter nodded, satisfied.

“Teams! Choose your corners!” 

Everyone scrambled across the rooftop, Peter and Sam choosing the smoothest, clearest corner.

“Ready… set… GO!”

“I will form the base,” Peter told Sam. “I have exceedingly more strength than you, and I can craft the most roundest, most smoothest, most biggest base.”

“I’ll focus on the top,” Sam said.

Peter worked with haste and efficiency. He felt a rush of confidence as he watched Bruce and Tony struggle to push their ovate lump of snow together while he rolled his ball with ease, the snowball perfectly spherical and barely a strain to his enhanced strength. Even Steve and Bucky were struggling with their snowball, the surface too slippery in their mittened hands. This was a problem that Peter did not have to face while his snowball adhered to his fingertips, even through his gloves.

When he was finally pleased with his ginormous creation, he moved onto the middle, moving at even faster speeds so that he would get first choice at the top hats. He wanted the perfect top hat.

By the time he was finished balancing the middle ball onto the base, Sam had completed the head. It was imperfect, the surface bumpy and the top forming more of a point than a perfect round curve, yet it was the most perfect head for their snowman.

“How the hell did you do that so fast? This thing’s huge.”

“Quickly! We must place the head so we can get the perfect top hat!” Peter grabbed the snowball that Sam obviously couldn’t hold any longer and began to walk up the side of the wall so that he could place the head on top of the towering snow.

“That’s not fair!” Tony shouted from across the roof.

“He’s utilizing his resources, Stark,” Natasha called back.

“Does that mean that I can use my suit?” Tony asked.

“No!” Everyone replied in unison.

Tony grumbled, turning back to push his snowball.

“We must acquire our decorations!” Peter said to Sam as he climbed down the wall.

“We better hurry,” Sam said in a light tone that indicated that he wasn’t taking it nearly as seriously as Peter was.

Peter bolted to the box, pulling it open and rummaging through the contents.

He meticulously extracted only the most symmetrical pieces of charcoal, found the crispest, pointiest carrot, picked the softest, brightest red scarf, and then he finally found it. 

The perfect top hat.

It was a smooth, tall black caroler top hat with a thick, shiny red ribbon tied around it right above the brim.

Peter beamed at the hat, and hurried back to his snowman.

“Sam, I entrust you to place the charcoal buttons. I will give him the most perfect face and wrap him in his scarf and then… I will place the top hat.”

Sam held the handful of coal close to his chest. “I will do my best.”

“I know you will.”

Peter climbed back up the wall, standing straight so that he was perpendicular to the snowman. He carefully placed his charcoal smile and eyes and slotted his carrot nose into the smooth point that Sam had made when he had rolled the head.

He gently wrapped the scarf around the crease of the two snowballs, tucking it tightly.

Finally, with a thick concentration, he placed the top hat, adjusting just slightly to turn it perfectly.

Dismounting from the wall with a front flip, Peter stepped back and took a moment to admire their handiwork. 

“We did good,” Peter said.

“You did most of the work,” Sam said with a chuckle.

“Your efforts were vital to our success.”

“Thanks, kid.”

Peter took one last look at his snowman before he headed to the empty corner and plopped himself into the thick snow.

He waved his arms and legs like he had seen the fictional teens in his shows do and felt as the snow was pushed into little stacks.

The crinkle of his snowsuit was a sound that he would hold onto, something reminiscent of the sensation of chilly snowflakes melting as they met his skin and the frustrated laughs of the team.

He closed his eyes, just letting the fluttering flurries fall on top of him. He sunk into the heat that encompassed him like a warm embrace. The sounds of the outside world blended together as he let himself drift into a comfortable silence, just the snow to cushion his back as his weight pushed deeper and deeper into the soft surface.

“Peter?” 

His eyes snapped open. 

“I’m going to announce the winner,” Natasha said. She held out a hand to help him up.

He gladly took it, swaying sleepily as he stood.

“I will be doing a sweep of the contenders. I would like you all to join me so you may see your competition.”

Tony scoffed. “Competition. Like there’s any competition here.”

“How about we start with yours then?” Natasha sauntered over to the snowman, barely taller than then two men that had crafted it which made it significantly shorter than its counterparts. “Hm.” She circled around it. “Not very smooth, is it? And a little thin, wouldn’t you say?” She tapped her chin. “Hm. Next snowman!”

The group migrated to the next corner where Steve and Bucky’s snowman sat. “Not exactly spherical, but the size is exceptional. Nice choice of scarf. I like the patterns drawn into the snow. Nice touch.”

Peter cursed under his breath.

“However, the transition between layers is shoddy and the head is exponentially smaller than the rest of the body.” Natasha nodded. “Final snowman!”

Peter’s hands shook at his sides as Natasha examined his snowman.

“The craftsmanship is exemplary. It is smooth, round, and extremely large. Larger than the other snowmen. It is structurally sound, the buttons are perfectly spaced, and the top hat is a nice touch.”

Peter fist pumped to himself.

“This is a no-brainer. There is obviously a clear winner.”

Peter held his breath, looking to Sam anxiously.

“Peter and Sam have the best snowman!”

Peter danced in his spot, pulling Sam into a victory hug.

“Now, how does some hot chocolate sound?” Natasha asked.

“That sounds very nice,” Peter said.

And so, the team winded down, curled up in fluffy blankets on the various couches spread throughout the common floor living room, toasty mugs of hot chocolate warming their palms.

Peter closed his eyes as he savored Natasha’s hot chocolate, the creamy drink rich and thick, coating his throat and making his limbs feel heavy. The whipped cream tapped his nose, and he tried to lick it off to no avail. He froze as he caught Sam’s eye, tongue still stuck out.

The two burst out into laughter, being careful to not spill their drinks.

And then it was just that. Bubbly laughter that made his ribs feel fuzzy and hot chocolate that made his chest warm and smiles that made his cheeks ache and a family that made him feel safe and loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering where Clint is,,, uhhhh, so am I. I assume he's still on vacation with his family though. So,,, that's where he is. Yup.


	23. Chapter 23

Peter awoke to the urgent shuffling coming from the other side of his door.

He furrowed his brows, rubbing at his tired eyes as he plodded out of his room.

Sam, wearing his Falcon armor and gobbling down a protein shake, went still. “Peter. Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“Yeah. But that’s okay.” He covered his mouth as he yawned. “What’s going on?”

“You know the giant worms that keep popping up?”

Peter nodded.

“Well, there’s been a nationwide emergence. They’re popping up in every major city of the United States, and we have to take care of them before they do major damage. So, it’s an all call.”

“You’re all leaving?” Peter asked, voice quiet.

Sam softened. “I’m sorry, kid. Pepper’s gonna stay with you, though, so you’re not gonna be alone.”

“Please be safe,” Peter whispered.

Sam pulled the boy into a hug, running his gloved fingers through his hair gently. “I’m gonna be fine, okay? I’ve handled much worse than some big, dumb worms.”

Peter chuckled wetly against his chest. “I just…”

“Worry. I know. But there’s nothing to worry about, okay? I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Is there anything you’d like when you come back? I can… I can make you something.”

“Those pumpkin chocolate chip muffins were really good,” Sam said after a long pause.

“Then I will make you some more.”

Sam ruffled Peter’s hair and gave his shoulder a soft squeeze. “Don’t get into too much trouble, alright?”

“I’ll try my best,” Peter said with a cheeky yet tentative grin.

Sam slung his bag over his shoulder and shuffled to the elevator. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

And then it was just Peter.

Another yawn escaped, making his jaw click. “What time is it?” he muttered to himself.

_ 3:42AM _ read the microwave.

He sighed, knowing that he wasn’t going to fall back asleep and that he had woken up much earlier to do much more strenuous tasks than lounge around on a squishy sofa.

So, he did just that, snuggling into the cushions with three fluffy blankets and his tablet and pulled up the article he had been reading the night before.

He had gotten so engrossed in his reading that he almost missed the light knocking at the door.

Peeling himself off of the couch, he clomped to answer, and was greeted by the bright grin of Pepper Potts.

“Good morning, Peter,” she greeted.

“Good morning, Pepper,” he replied.

“I was thinking you and I could go get some breakfast. How does that sound?”

_ ‘I haven’t earned it _ ,’ said the looming thought invading his mind. “Would you mind if I cleaned up a little bit before we go?”

“Not at all. Would you like some help?”

“No, thank you. Make yourself comfortable. I won’t be too long.” Peter scurried to his room and began his cleaning routine. Still not satisfied enough to have felt like he earned food, he went to tidy up Sam’s room. It wasn’t until both rooms, bathrooms, kitchen, and living room were spotless was he finally content.

“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting,” Peter said.

“No problem at all! I got to have my morning cup of tea  _ and _ get time to scroll through the news in peaceful silence. It was a pleasure.”

“So,” Peter said. “Breakfast?”

“Have you ever french toast?”

French toast was revolutionary. It was astounding. It was mind-blowing and life-changing and exemplary.

Pepper had ordered him two types of french toast: tiramisu and ham and cheese. Peter had started with the savory, the crunchy cheese and sweet ham bursting with flavor on his taste buds. Then, the tiramisu with rich, deep, dark chocolate and fluffy, thick cream that coated his throat. 

“So, is there anything you want to do today?” Pepper asked.

Peter swallowed his bite, following it with a sip of his milk. “I was going to make Sam some chocolate chip pumpkin muffins. But I was gonna do that later because they’re better fresh.”

“That’s very nice of you,” she said with a soft smile. “Tony has brought me some of the things you’ve baked. They’re very delicious. You’re an amazing baker.”

He felt a swell of warmth at the praise. “Thank you.”

“I can tell you’re not used to everyone being gone,” she said.

“Correct.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, you’re right.”

“So, I was thinking maybe you and I could have a spa day.”

“Spa day?” He knew of spa days. They had been in a multitude of the fictional movies he had watched. “ _ I  _ can have a spa day?”

“Of course you can. Anyone can have one.”

He beamed. “I would like to have a spa day.”

Spa days were much more laborious than they seemed in the movies.

The first thing they did was a “dry brush exfoliation.” The bristles tickled on his skin and itched a little. Pepper said it increased blood flow and stimulated collagen production which pleased Peter immensely. 

Then, they did face and hair masks while they soaked their feet in a foot bath and drank green smoothies. 

Pepper told him funny stories about Tony that made him laugh so hard that he almost spit his green smoothie out.

Once they finished by washing their faces and giving themselves a little massage as they moisturized, Peter felt loose and relaxed and his skin felt silky smooth.

The two were lying in Peter’s bed, watching what Pepper called a “rom com” when her phone began to ring.

“Sorry, Peter. I have to take this.” She excused herself and headed to the kitchen. “ _ What?  _ Collapsed. It collapsed?” 

Peter’s eyebrows shot up as he took out his dampener to listen in more.

_ “There’s an infestation of giant worms rampaging New York. They’ve got SHIELD on it, but as you know, the Avengers are across the nation working on the other outbreaks.” _

“Is everyone okay?”

_ “So far, the only major damage has been to SI headquarters. However, we’re gonna need you to come in to work your CEO magic for damage control.” _

She sighed. “I’ll be there in fifteen, okay? Settle everyone as best you can until I get there. Push the press focus. Avert any attention from any claims to SI’s nefarious affiliation that they may try to fabricate.”

_ “You got it.” _

Pepper entered Peter’s room with an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry to cut this short, but I just got called into work. Nothing to worry about, just have to address some things in person. Are you gonna be okay here alone until I get back?”

Peter nodded. “I’ve got JARVIS.”

She let out a breath of relief. “Alright. Great. Call me if you need anything, and I mean anything, okay?”

“I will. I think I’ll just get started on those muffins for Sam.”

“Okay. Okay! I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay? Stay—” She cut herself off. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will,” he said. “You better get going. Whatever this is sounds urgent.”

“It is. I should go.” She grabbed her purse and slipped on her shoes before rushing out to the elevator.

Peter stood alone, staring aimlessly as the door closed behind her.

Mechanically, he headed to the kitchen, pulling out the ingredients to make his muffins.

He tried. He really tried to just sift his flour and ignore the chaos erupting in the distance. He tried to level his sugar and not listen to the reports of the destruction be wreaked just miles away. He tried to make his muffins because that is what he said he would do and that was what he was expected to do and that was what he was supposed to do.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t standby. He couldn’t sit and wait and listen as the monsters ravaged his city. As much as the disobedience and borderline deception made his skin crawl and the weight on his chest feel bone-crushing, staying idle made his stomach churn and the pressure in his temples rise and his body jitter.

“JARVIS? What is the temperature today?”

“It is currently ten degrees fahrenheit.”

Peter cursed under his breath. “Thanks, JARVIS.” He went to his room, and rummaged through his clothes from the day before until he found his heater bodysuit.

He went to put on his snow gear but stopped as he remembered how immobile he became in it. Then, knowing that he couldn’t risk going out bare-faced, he went in search of his mask and goggles.

A pit fell heavy in his gut as he realized that he couldn’t enter the fight empty handed. 

It had been a comfort to know that his new life didn’t require him to ever pick up a gun again, to never have to use that gun to kill again, and though it felt to be a necessity for a fair fight, it made his palms sweat.

The elevator ride down to the gym was uncomfortable, his throat tight and dry and hands trembling by his side.

He knew it wouldn’t be simple to leave with a gun with JARVIS’s constant surveillance. He was still piecing together his heist while he scoured the gym.

He was searching through the cupboards when he knocked over a box. He scrambled to pick up the contents when he froze. 

His adhesive.

He slipped the applicator onto his wrist and fiddled with the projection intensity. Tentatively, he pointed to the wall and shot.

The adhesive stuck in a giant web, a string trailing from the release point.

“Okay,” Peter whispered. “What else can you do?” 

He aimed at the ceiling and gave himself a running start before jumping and shooting. The adhesive caught the wall and held on as he swung across the room.

“Okay!” Peter exclaimed. “I can work with this.” He nodded. “I can work with this,” he muttered again.

He tied the roll of refills around his waist like a belt, and slipped a second applicator on his left wrist.

“JARVIS? What floor is the gym on?”

“You are currently on the thirty-second floor.”

Peter squeaked. “Right. Okay. Thank you.” With stiff hesitance, he headed to the window. 

“I would not recommend you open the window. The temperatures are below freezing,” JARVIS said.

“I just need some fresh air,” Peter said, the lie making him feel sick.

“Just be wary of your internal temperature, Young Sir.”

“Will do.”

Peter pushed the window open, a blast of crisp winter air hitting his face. The bodysuit blasted the heat in response, covering his body in warmth.

In one swift motion, Peter hurled his body out of the window, sticking to the side of the building.

“Okay. Okay okay okay! You’ve got this, Peter. You can do this.” He turned around, sticking his back straight against the wall. “You’ve got this, Peter. You can do this.” He eyed the closest building, standing significantly shorter than Avengers Tower. “This is all physics. You know physics. This is just real life application of physics. Just simple math. Simple deduction.” He took a shaky breath and leapt forward, shooting the web into the distance. “Simple math! Simple physics! Please work, please work, please—”

He felt his body swing upwards. 

He laughed in relief, letting out a small whoop as he shot out to the next building.

It became a simple rhythm after that, simple calculations while aiming with a concentrated precision. 

The exhilaration quickly died as he got closer to the disaster zone.

The giant worm was tearing the streets apart. Its enormous body collided with buildings that crumbled in the impact. Civilians screeched in terror as they sprinted in search of safety. 

Peter landed onto the ground and ran to catch a piece of debris before it landed on a group of fear-frozen people.

“Run! Get out of here!” He yelled, still holding the cement above his head.

They nodded, dashing out of the way.

Peter adjusted the applicators as he ran up the side of a building. He shot down at the rogue worm, entrapping its body in the web. He then began to stitch around it with his webs to keep it glued to the street.

He went to investigate the beast, but went still as the familiar scent attacked his senses.

_ “Eat,” his owner had instructed. “You have earned your food today.” _

_ “What is it?” the DV had asked, so young,  _ too _ young to understand. It had not been fed for days, only given a seldom sip of dirty water so that its body would not deteriorate into worthless unusable functionality.  _

_ The owner slapped the DV hard. “You do not ask questions.” She threw the food onto the floor in front of him. “It is food.” _

_ “Thank you. Thank you. I’m sorry,” the DV said, scrambling to pick up the pieces that had fallen astray. _

_ It took a bite of the unfamiliar meat. It was slimy and squishy beneath its char.  _

_ “This will be what you will be eating from now on. It’ll satisfy your damned metabolism.” _

_ “Thank you,” it said. The DV had felt starved with the foods that had once quenched its hunger.  _

_ The protein was unfamiliar. It tasted overwhelmingly strong. It was earthy, almost like the DV was eating dirt from the ground. It was tough and gelatinous between its teeth, but it settled the ache in its stomach. _

_ The DV would soon cherish the protein and do everything it could to earn more. _

“You are…?” Peter started, stupefied.

“I see our suspicions were correct.”

Peter froze.

“Did living with the Avengers give you a hero complex, DV?”

Peter slowly turned around and a cold chill shot down his spine as he met eyes with her.

“Did you miss me, DV?” she asked, her lips curled wickedly. “I have to say, you’ve been a real pain. The destruction you caused was irreversible and your insubordination is irredeemable.”

Peter flinched.

“A disobedience of this magnitude would once be punished only by death considering your obvious defection.” She grinned. “But that would be too much of a mercy for you. One that you clearly do not deserve.” She took a strong step towards him. “Chomhlíontach.”

Peter’s legs buckled beneath him, his knees scraping against the asphalt as they collided with the street. He bowed his head as he held out his hands, palms up.

“Very good,” she said with a pleased laugh. “Very, very good.” She took a fistful of his hair and yanked his head up to face her. 

She plucked his mask off, the goggles soon after.

He stared at her, face blank and eyes glassy.

“Now I can see your pretty face.” She wound her arm back and collided her fist with his cheek with a sickening crack. 

He didn’t respond.

She kicked him twice in the ribs and once in the chest, sending him flying down, his head bouncing on the pavement. She placed the sole of her boot to his cheek and ground his face onto the ground.

She pulled him up by the hair until he was standing, and wrapped her fingers around his throat, squeezing until he couldn’t help but splutter as her grasp tightened firmer.

It wasn’t until he was wheezing for any semblance of air that she threw him to the ground.

His body was unmoving as he coughed, sharp gasps escaping his throat as he hungrily sucked in as much air as he could.

“You were created for greatness. We created you! You had once awaited at the beck and call of The Greater Good. You once had meaning. You were meant to achieve greatness, to rid the world plagued with imperfection and become the perfection that it deserved.” She kicked him again, his body falling limp. “You will never be perfect. Not without us. Not without me. We can rebuild. We can achieve greatness once more.” She smiled. “And we can do that without you.” She ground her heels into his side. “Because your defection only proves that you are truly unworthy and will never be enough to compete with The Reckoning.” She sighed, devoid of any real emotion. “So you must be terminated.” She pulled her foot up and stepped away from him. “Tráthnóna.”

He did not respond.

“Did I not say it correctly?” she muttered to herself. “Tráthnóna!”

His eyes went dark and he raised his head up and threw himself to the ground to brace himself before swiping his legs beneath her feet, knocking her off balance.

“What? What is this?”

Peter shot a web at her torso. She rolled, tucking her body while she flipped into a fighting stance.

“Clever,” she seethed through gritted teeth. She whipped out two combat knives, spinning them until they were comfortably slotted in her palm. She lunged forward.

Peter flipped out of her way easily.

She growled. She tightened her grip on her knife and sliced rapidly, surging forward with pure rage.

Peter danced around her advances easily. 

“You have become soft,” she spat. “Coddled by your saviors that have stripped away your strength, your worth. What do you think they will do when they realize what you are? What you  _ aren’t? _ Do you really believe that they will stay? Do you  _ really think _ that you can hold onto this facade of a perfect existence? This lie of life that you have conceived in your credulous mind? You are lost in domestic bliss that you have been blinded.”

Peter stilled at her words, stumbling over his feet and getting a swipe of the blade to his torso. He hopped up, teeth gritted, fists held up in defense. 

“You are truly a disappointment. We had waited for you to reach your potential. We had invested so much into your development, but you failed us. You failed yourself. You failed The Greater Good. What will you do when you are not prepared for The Reckoning? What will you do when you cannot be enough to combat The Reckoning?”

“The Reckoning is not real!” Peter roared. “You lie! You have always lied! There is no Reckoning! There is no Greater Good! You are filled with deceit!” 

“Your delusion will be your detriment,” she said sharply. “You were always too distracted by your own morals. You cannot survive when you are filled with such grandeur. You need to be put back into your place.”

“You facilitated pain! Pain and hate and hurt. I may be distracted by my morals, but I know now that you have none.”

She simpered. “Well, if all I’m good for is pain, then I better get started, hm?” She flicked her wrist, sending a knife at Peter, lodging itself in his gut.

He keeled over, gasping sharply. He ripped the knife out and tossed to the ground.

“You just don’t quit,” she said with a laugh. 

Peter darted forward, and ran past her.

“Running away, are we?” she shouted.

Peter grinned smugly as he ricocheted off of the side of the building and flipped over her, kicking into the back of her knees with his shin, sending her flying to the ground. She yelped as she scraped the pavement. He pulled her wrists behind her back and entrapped them together in a thick layer of webs. Following suit, he webbed her ankles together. For good measure, he circled her body in a loop of web.

She scowled at him, teeth bared as she tried to wriggle free. “You are nothing. You would have nothing if it were not for what we made you.”

Peter tipped his chin up defiantly. “I am more than you. I am more than what you created me to be. I was destined for greatness, but it was not The Greater Good that I am destined for.” He stepped closer. “I get to choose now. I get to be everything you stripped me of.”

She rolled her eyes. “And what is that?”

“Me. And I may not know who I am yet because you stole that from me, but I get to create myself. I am not your creation. I am my own.”

“Well, aren’t you just piteous?”

Peter smiled. “I do not crave your approval. I am not yours anymore, and I never will be again.” He ambled away and picked up his mask and goggles. He slipped them on. “You  _ will _ be held accountable for your misdeeds.”

As if on cue, there was a metallic clunk as a bright red and gold metal suit landed between Peter and the woman. 

“I see you were busy,” Tony said, his voice tinny through the speaker.

“You were out of town,” Peter said with a shrug.

“We’ll take care of this. You get back to the tower, okay?”

Peter, still buzzing with adrenaline and body jittery from shock, nodded blankly. The dull pain from the hole in his stomach was beginning to sting and ache. “Will you be back?”

“Yeah. I’ll be back. We’ll have a big bowl of cheese tortellini. The kind with all the butter and peas. How’s that sound?”

Peter nodded again, body and mind in a numb blur. “Okay. Goodbye.”

He got a running start up the nearest building and began to swing back to the tower, barely registering the choked gasp that escaped Tony’s throat.

.-~*~-.

The Avengers all sat in Peter’s bedroom in their pajamas, Steve and Bucky sitting with their backs against the bed’s headboard, Tony sitting cross-legged at the edge of the bed next to Peter, Natasha sitting at his desk, Bruce and Sam slumped in the beanbag chairs, and Clint sitting atop Peter’s dresser with his legs dangling off the side.

They all had big steaming bowls of tortellini in their laps, all munching in silence as their eyes drooped in exhaustion.

“Who has the cheese?” Clint asked.

“You have enough cheese,” Natasha muttered, stabbing a heaping forkful of pasta before shoveling it into her mouth.

“You can never have too much cheese!” Clint declared, wincing at the volume of his own voice. “Can I have more cheese, please?” he asked, softer.

“Fine,” Natasha said. She threw him the grater followed soon after by the block of parmesan.

“Thank you!” Clint sang, cringing again before cutting himself off and silently stabbing the block of cheese with his fork to fit in the grater.

“Good chortellini,” Bucky stated.

“ _ Tortellini _ ,” Tony corrected.

“Tortally,” Bucky quipped.

Tony scoffed in dismay. 

Peter choked out a sob, hand trembling as he raised it to his mouth.

Everyone froze.

Peter wiped at his eyes with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry– I didn’t—I’m sorry— I can’t,” another crackled sob escaped his throat which was aching and raw. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s alright. You’re safe. You’re okay,” Tony murmured softly. “May I touch you?”

“Yes please,” he cried, burying his face into Tony’s t-shirt, empty bowls toppling to the floor.

Tony petted his hair, shushing him softly. “It’s alright. I’m here. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

“I-it was so-o hard,” Peter said through hiccupped breaths. “I ha-ad to be st-trong and fight even though everything I’ve been trained for to-old me not t-to and, and, and I just, I just, I didn’t think I could do it but I, but I did and I did it and now she’s, and now it’s, and now I’m,” he paused, a desperate cry replacing his stuttering words.

Tony pulled him in closer, wrapping his arms around his back. 

“I wasn’t ready to go. I’m not ready to go. I’m not ready for this all to be over and for you to give up and leave me. I love you too much. I love all of you too much. I don’t want this to end.”

“Hey, who said anything about this ending?” Tony said. “I happen to really like what we’ve got going on.”

“You will realize my true worth. You will realize that I am not worthy of your hospitality anymore.”

“Hey,” Tony said, soft but firm. “We know you, we love you, and we’re not gonna stop any time soon. Don’t you worry about that.”

“My past came back today, a past that I have pushed far away, and it made me realize how much… how much my new life truly means. That I have grown too accustomed to the ease and simplicity and, and, and  _ good _ of it all. I have lost sight of what a privilege it has been, and have taken it for granted. I have not truly appreciated it because I had begun to move on from torments of my past.

“But my past came back today, and it made me realize how good my life has become. How much good you all have brought into my life. I never knew that life could  _ be _ this good. The imperfection, the simplicity, it is all so far from even my wildest dreams. It is more than my dreams could concoct. It is almost too good to be true.

“And sometimes I worry that this is a fabrication of my mind, taunting me with a better life. But I feel your warmth, and I hear your heart beats, and I am surrounded by all the things that make you all you and I… I can almost believe it. That it can be real. That it is real and that I deserve it.

“And I— I realized as she twisted my confidence like she had once done with her manipulative words that I may not… I may not feel as though I deserve this life, and this life may be impermanent even though you insist it is not, but I… I do not deserve the life that I had had before. I am more than that life. I am more than her, than them. I deserve more than that. And I don’t know if this is what I deserve, but maybe one day I will believe so.”

And that hope, it may have given him a lot to lose, but he was going to hold on to it. He had a whole life ahead of him. He had a life. 

He was going to be okay. He believed it. He knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to a few people.
> 
> Thank you to Shaderose and dredfulhapiness for listening to me ramble about this fic when notapartytrick was asleep. You are the MVPs and helped a lot with the earlier chapters.
> 
> Thank you so so much to notapartytrick for being the absolute best. I couldn't have written this without you being there for the brainstorming process and ready to listen to my nonsense throughout the writing process. You helped me make this story something amazing and I am forever grateful.
> 
> And thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! I don't know if there's more planned for the universe, but I've definitely got some ideas. Thank you for dedicating your time to read this story!

**Author's Note:**

> Updates every Tuesday and Friday!
> 
> If you want to chat, my Tumblr is [official-impravidus](https://official-impravidus.tumblr.com/)


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